


Dear Jon

by sansainthenorth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Arya and Brienne and Bran and Sam all play a part, Canon Universe, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epistolary, F/M, Forgiveness, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, Jon and Sansa learn to understand each other, Letters, Love Confessions, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Romance, Slow Burn, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, and original characters too, one letter per chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2020-10-05 01:38:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 31,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20480798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansainthenorth/pseuds/sansainthenorth
Summary: Sansa drops the quill onto the wooden table carved with the leaves of the heart-tree and leans back in her chair, letting out a loud, exasperated sigh. “Why do I struggle to find the words?”Her sister’s grey eyes study her face attentively for a heartbeat. “Perhaps you don’t know what to say.”“I do,” Sansa states without hesitation. “I know what to say.”“But?”Sansa shrugs, the thick grey furs draped over her shoulders rising and falling. “I don’t know if he’d like to hear from me.”“Why wouldn’t he?”[…]Jon rises from his seat and folds the letter, holding it tight in his hand, and strides towards the exit doors of the common hall. He looks for some parchment and a quill, and when he finds everything he needs, he takes a deep sigh and prays that his words do not fail him.She apologised, but I’m the one who should ask for forgiveness.***Post s8 epistolary fic. Sansa and Jon manage to put their pride aside and begin exchanging letters to find comfort and solace until an accidental confession on Jon’s part changes everything. Then, letters do not prove effective anymore in their quest for mutual forgiveness and understanding.(Beta’d.)





	1. Letter one

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SainTalia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SainTalia/gifts).

> **1:** I hated s8 for what they did to my Jon. What they did to his character goes beyond any ship. I still believe that the real Jon we know and love never would’ve behaved like that but since we’re here, and this is what canon gave us, I thought it would be a nice opportunity to explore the realm of angst and longing that I love so much about Jonsa. I also didn’t like that they made Sansa feel guilty for not “saving” Jon (based on the episode synopsis), but I thought “why not playing a bit with that?” Sometimes, I believe, good can be found in adversity, so this is what I want to do with this fic. I want to pick up the mess they made and transform it into something (I hope) good;  
**2:** I don’t think this fic will be longer than 10 chapters. I don’t need to write more to unfold it as I’ve imagined. The letters are the main core of the story, but as you can see there will be some third-person narration. Also, I think every chapter will have both Sansa’s and Jon’s POVs, for practical reasons;  
**3:** Angry Sansa is coming so, yeah. She wrote first but that doesn’t mean she’s 100% chill. Feelings are complicated and I love pining!Jonsa lol;  
**4:** I’ll mention Dany only when necessary story-wise. Jonerice is dead in this house;  
**5:** For those of you who follow **[Lemonade](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19885837/chapters/47098777)** (special shout-out to you guys), I’ll keep updating that one, no doubt about that. So sexy prof Jon Snow is still going strong;  
**6:** Anyhow, I hope my fic won’t let you down. I’ll try to do my best. I hope we can have a good time all together.  
***  
Special shoutout to my dearest **[SainTalia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SainTalia/pseuds/SainTalia)** for being my beta and embarking with me on this journey. What would I be without you? A mess of a writer probably.

**Sansa**

Sansa drops the quill onto the wooden table carved with the leaves of the heart-tree and leans back in her chair, letting out a loud, exasperated sigh. “Why do I struggle to find the words?”

Her sister’s grey eyes study her face attentively for a heartbeat. “Perhaps you don’t know what to say.”

“I do,” Sansa states without hesitation. “I know what to say.”

“But?”

Sansa shrugs, the thick grey furs draped over her shoulders rising and falling. “I don’t know if he’d like to hear from me.”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“I don’t know.” Sansa’s eyes glide to the crackling fire at her left. “You can read people better than I can.”

“So?” Arya asks, unsheathing her shiny dagger and fidgeting it with her hands. “He’s not here, so I can’t _read_ him.”

“But you were there when we said goodbye. How do you think he looked?”

His face is still clearly visible in Sansa’s mind’s eye. Furrowed brow, pursed lips; she still remembers how he looked down at his side after she had asked for his forgiveness. _Asked_, not begged. No, Sansa did not beg. He never would have let her anyway, even if she had tried. Yet, if that could have led to him nodding and stating that there was nothing to forgive, she would have done it without thinking about it twice.

And she probably would not have been here, now, with countless unspoken words haunting her nights.

Arya adjusts herself in her chair on the opposite side of the carved table. “He looked torn, I’d say. As if he wanted to forgive you—”

“But he couldn’t.” A lump forms in Sansa’s throat, but she swallows hard and pushes it down like she has learned to do these past few moons. “Of course he didn’t. Why did I even ask?”

“Because you hoped I’d tell you something different.” Her sister pauses and observes her for a moment, before adding, “I know how to spot lies, Sansa, and I know how to lie. But I won’t lie now. Not to _you_.”

She should feel relieved at her sister’s sincerity, yet the lump she still feels in her throat reaches her stomach and transforms into a tight knot that sucks all the air from her lungs. Suddenly, the ancient stone walls around her stifle her. She calls for a servant and has the fire put out despite Arya’s sceptical looks. Because yes, she knows summer is still too far away to rely on the warm waters of the hot springs alone, but right now she cannot stand the heat coming from the hearth beside her.

Right now, she cannot stand fire. Because it is fire that has been setting her nights aflame.

“What will you do, then?” Arya asks her, sliding her dagger back into its sheath and folding her hands on her lap.

“I have to write him,” Sansa says. “He hasn’t written yet, and I’m starting to worry.”

“Why? You know nothing ever happens at the Wall. You were there once.”

“Yes, I know.” A sigh escapes from her lips and her eyes land on the black pile of ashes inside the hearth. “But he’s alone there, and—”

“He’s not,” Arya corrects her, slightly shaking her head. “Tormund is there most of the time. And many brothers, too. And with the Wildlings at peace now, there’s no need to worry.”

It is nothing new to Sansa’s ears. She knows Tormund is one of Jon’s dearest friends, and she is aware the Wildlings do not represent a threat anymore, but it is not concern that is eating her alive. She knows he is perfectly able to defend himself in situations of peril, but knowing that is not enough to soothe her nerves. It is remorse that fills her, regret for not bringing him home with her after the war. It is guilt for not saving him from the exile he had been sentenced to. And no matter how many times she tells herself that she should forget about it and move on, it is his unforgiving eyes she sees every night when she lies in bed. It is his kind smile she longs for when she clutches at her bedsheets, the one he did not give her that day on that pier.

“It’s getting late. I should go.” Arya’s voice wakes her from the storm of thoughts inside her head.

Sansa looks up at her sister who has already made for the door. “You can stay, if you want. I won’t go to bed anytime soon.”

“I should sleep. And you should too,” Arya says, speaking with such wisdom that for a moment Sansa wonders who is the older of the two. “And about the letter, don’t think too much about it. Just write.”

_Just write_. “You make it sound easy.”

“It is,” her sister says with a sly smile before shutting the door behind her.

Now alone, Sansa sighs deeply and rubs her temples, where a faint headache is starting to make its way. She clutches the cloak over her shoulders, almost wishing that the fire were still warming the room, and glances at the window beside her. Outside, everything is dark, and only a few lit torches scattered on the castle walls and towers remain visible.

She gives one last look at the blank parchment before her and sighs. _This is pointless and Arya is right. I need to sleep._

After dismissing Ser Brienne and the other guards, who had been posted at the door of her solar, Sansa finds herself inside her bedchambers. A handmaiden feeds the fire with some logs and strokes it, making it pop and crackle, and then proceeds to help Sansa with her gown. Once her corset is fully unbuttoned, the girl bobs a curtsy before her queen and leaves. Her skirts flutter onto the floor, pins are disentangled from her locks, and her feet drag Sansa’s tired body towards her bed. In her smallclothes, she tucks herself under the thick furs and groans with pleasure when her cold, bare legs soak in the warmth of her bed. Lying on her back, Sansa stares at the canopy pooled in orange from the firelight.

The Great Keep is silent, everybody must be asleep by now, save for Sansa. She thinks and thinks and tries to rest, but every time she closes her eyes they fly back open, for sleep does not come for her. Perhaps she should have asked Maester Wolkan for some dreamwine, maybe having it sweetened with honey, but it is no secret to herself that as long as that blank parchment rests on her desk, she will not be able to calm. Until words flow out of her like she wants them to, her mind will keep going back to that day on that pier. Because she does want to write him, she wants to pick up the quill and fill the page with thoughts, questions, hopes and fears. She wants to be honest, she wants to be blunt, she wants to let her guard down for once. She has no idea what Jon is going through. She does not know if he is lonely, if he misses his family, if he has found peace. She does not know if he resents her. All she knows is that she wishes he were home again, with Arya and her, like she had pictured it after being informed of the Dragon Queen’s death.

Yet Jon is not here, and the castle is cold, as cold as the winter they have survived.

Sansa sighs and turns onto the other side, her back facing the fire that warms her bones. She fights the war inside her mind and forces her eyelids to close. After a while, her breathing softens, her muscles slacken, and finally slumber scoops her up and leads her where everything is calm and quiet.

—

The following morning, Sansa breaks her fast with her sister. The table in the morning room is laden with food: boiled eggs, white and black bread, bacon and fruits.

“What time did you go to sleep last night?” Arya asks while chewing on some bacon.

Sansa cuts a slice off a green apple and bites it. “I left shortly after you. I couldn’t write anything.”

“You know,” Arya says between bites, “I’ve been thinking about it, and perhaps you should wait for him to write you.”

“Then I think I’ll wait forever.”

“True. He can be quite stubborn and proud at times.” Arya moves onto the bread. “Especially when he feels guilty.”

Sansa lifts her eyes from her plate. “_Guilty_?”

Arya nods. “You two are pretty similar in that aspect.”

Sansa feels her cheeks flush at her sister’s remark, but she hopes that the mask she is used to wearing does not betray her. “Why do you think he feels guilty?”

“_Sansa_,” her sister says, and it almost sounds a reproach. “What you should ask is _why wouldn’t he?_”

“I don’t care about his apologies.” _I just want him home._

Arya observes her for a while, and Sansa’s glances down at her barely touched food. Then, her sister speaks again. “Of course he feels guilty. He bent the knee without asking you, he let an invader into our home…and he _bedded _her.”

Sansa shudders, and her stomach churns. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Oh, _Sansa_.” There it is, that tone again. “You really think I didn’t notice the way you looked at him when he was still here?”

Sansa’s muscles stiffen. “I didn’t do anything of the sort. You’re imagining things.”

“_Me_? _Imagining things_?” Arya scoffs. “Of the two, _you_ have always been the one with a very vivid imagination. Always dreaming of gallant knights and princes—”

“I’m not that girl anymore.”

“Deep down, you still are,” Arya says, leaning closer, unexpectedly placing a hand on her sister’s. “There is nothing wrong in seeking love like you used to.” She stays silent for a moment, and Sansa’s heart thunders like a drum inside her chest. “And I also noticed how _he _looked at you.”

Sansa slides her hand away from beneath Arya’s. “I need to go now,” she mutters, gathering up her skirts and rising. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

Arya lets her go, and Sansa is glad that no one looks at her as she makes her way out of the morning room. When Ser Brienne follows her, asking if she needs help, she quickly dismisses her and sprints for the main staircase. She needs to be alone.

In her solar, everything lies as she had left it the night before. Rolls of parchment are scattered on the table, and heavy leatherbound books surround them with their yellowed pages filled with words and numbers she does not care about now. She walks towards the high windows and looks outside, but the clouds that form in her eyes are thicker than the ones in the sky, and her eyes fill with tears.

Why she is crying now, Sansa does not know. She is not sad, she knows for sure. Angry, yes. She is aware that Jon made mistakes, and she knows that he probably despises himself for it, but that is not enough to comfort her. She does not care about being right, not with Jon. She hates that he is not here to talk with her, and she loathes that she cannot find the nerve to put on parchment everything that spins around her mind. It should not be difficult, but it feels heavier a burden than any other she has ever had to carry on her shoulders. Her vision still blurry with tears, Sansa bites her lip to stifle her sobs and clenches her fists at her sides. Why does it have to be like this? Could not they all be at home, together, like she had longed for for so many years? Why did Jon have to pay for someone else’s crimes? It is regicide he committed, she knows that, but is he a monster for slaying a monster?

And why do words escape her now that she wants to write him?

_A queen I am, _she bitterly thinks to herself,_ and I don’t even know how to write a letter._

She furiously wipes some tears away from her burning cheeks and steps away from the window. _Just write_, Arya told her the night before. _Arya_. Her little sister managed to terrorise her without even using a knife. It was enough for her to speak one simple word: _love_. How long has she known the truth, then? Sansa was sure that her terrible secret was safe in her heart, for no one else to see, but now, it is clear that she underestimated her sister’s acuity.

Was it true, though? That he looked at her in the same way that she did? Her sister is smart, yes, but Jon is harder to read than her, and it is possible that she mistook his brotherly affections for something else. After all, if he requited her feelings, why would he bed another woman? It is true that when he and Daenerys had met he did not know about his heritage, but why did not he act on his feelings after finding out the truth? Sansa’s stomach churns again now as she thinks of the Dragon Queen. No, Jon did not love her back then, and he certainly does not love her now. Arya is wrong, Sansa knows that. But what if she is right?

Sansa shakes the thought away from her head, before she starts looking for a meaning that it is not really there, and sits at her desk. _Just write_, her sister’s voice echoes inside her mind. Her eyes are dry now, and her hand suddenly aches for the quill. She stretches out all ten fingers and picks it up, dipping it in the inkwell. She takes a deep, long sigh, and then begins. _Now or never, Sansa._

Her hand moves swiftly on the page. Words come to her mind and she writes them down, one after the other, like the words to one of her favourite songs about knights and maidens. She writes and writes, then hesitates, looking for the right word, then makes a mistake. She sighs and crumples up the page, tossing it aside, and takes a new one. She begins again. Quick hand, dark ink, her letter takes form under her very eyes, and her mind races with words, with phrases, and it is almost as if the letter writes itself. The quill dances on the parchment, illuminated by the sunlight that filters through the window beside her, and she writes and writes, untiring and unstoppable. Why did it seem hard at first when now it is so easy? Why are the right words finally coming to her mind now and not earlier? Sansa does not know, yet she is glad that she has finally found the voice she was looking for, the one she thought lost.

Once the letter is complete, Sansa leans back in her wooden chair and sighs, this time not with frustration but with _relief_. A spontaneous smile pulls at her lips when she picks up the letter and reads it to make sure she is satisfied with the result. Her eyes skim her words, and her heart flutters when they land on his name written in her own hand. She finds it so intimate, writing his name. It is almost as if he were there, in the same room as her, his hair tied back and his body wrapped in his cloak. It feels as if the room were filled with his familiar scent and she could touch him and tell him that all their mistakes are forgiven and spring awaits them.

But he is not there, and all Sansa can do now is write him from miles away.

She dips the quill in the inkwell one last time but hesitates. _Sansa_, she would like to sign at the bottom of the page, but she knows what etiquette compels her, so _Queen in the North_ are the last words she writes.

She folds the letter and seals it, stamping it with the direwolf of House Stark. The pad of her right thumb is stained with ink, but she does not mind. With the letter in hand, she heads outside for the ravens’ cages. She could have a servant send the letter, but she wants to do it herself.

She binds the letter to one of the ravens’ legs and releases the bird. Its wings flap and flutter as quick as her heart and in the blink of an eye the raven is gone, lost among the clouds scattered here and there in the morning sky.

_Dark wings, dark words_, her father used to say. Yet it is a plea for solace that Sansa has just sent.

**Jon**

“Lord Snow.” Erik, a short lad of five and ten, approaches their table. His cheeks are red and his forehead is sweaty, and Jon offers him some water, but he refuses. “This is for you.”

The boy hands him something. Jon’s eyes focus on it. A letter.

“Who sent that?” Tormund asks from a few seats away.

Jon notices the direwolf seal and his heart stops beating for a moment. “From Winterfell. From the Queen in the North.”

He tears off the seal and opens the letter. His eyes scan the message, running across the words, but after reading the first few lines his blood starts flowing regularly again.

He lets out a relieved sigh and places the letter onto the table before he even reaches its half. “Nothing worrisome.”

“You’re not going to read that?” Sam asks him, his puffy cheeks reddened by the cold.

“I will. Later.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Tormund pours himself some ale. “You weren’t angry before the ugly boy brought you that.”

Jon looks away and Sam answers on his behalf. “He’s not angry,” he says, and turns his head towards him. Jon can feel his friend’s eyes on him, but he still looks stubbornly at his lap. “He misses her.”

“Thank you so much, Sam,” Jon snaps, his eyes now flickering to his friend’s face.

Tormund scoffs. “So? She wrote you. Now read that and write her back.”

“I wish it were that simple,” Jon says, sighing.

“I don’t know what your problem is, Snow, but I have to go now. My folks are waiting for me.” Tormund swallows his last gulp of ale and rises from his seat. After saying goodbye to the both of them, he takes his leave.

“You should stop blaming yourself, Jon,” Sam says, and Jon feels rage mount.

“How can I? I _am_ to blame!”

“But she wrote you. She did, and you’re ignoring her.”

Jon groans. “I’m not. I’ll read her letter and I’ll reply, eventually.”

“Eventually?” Sam drags his chair closer to Jon’s, in a loud shriek of wood against wood. “Jon, this is your chance to tell her how you feel. How you _really_ feel.”

“I can’t.” Jon shakes his head. “What I feel for her is abhorrent. And were she to return my affections, it would be pointless. She’s a queen and I’m an outcast. A turncloak. She deserves better than me.” He gulps down the bile that gathered in his throat. “If I touched her, her father would rise from the dead and kill me.”

Sam chuckles, but Jon did not mean that as a joke. “You’re too dramatic, Jon. I’m sure that if Lord Eddard knew the truth about your feelings, he would give you his approval.”

“I highly doubt it.” He picks up the letter, folds it and tucks it under his belt. “Anyway, I don’t want to talk about it. I’ll deal with this later.”

“If that’s what you want,” Sam simply says in a defeated tone. “But don’t be too hard on yourself.”

“How?” Jon spits, aching as he does every time he remembers all that happened before and after the war. “I betrayed her trust, Sam. I was King in the North and I bent the knee without consulting her first. I allowed Daenerys Targaryen to come into our home and I ignored Sansa’s warnings about her.” He expected to feel something after pronouncing the Dragon Queen’s name, anything, but instead, he felt _nothing_. And now he cannot help but feel relieved, even though his rage is yet to be soothed. “She tried to warn me, Sam, _you_ tried to warn me. And I didn’t listen to any of you, until it was too late.” His fist clenches and his muscles do not loosen not even when Sam places a friendly hand on the black boiled leather over his shoulder. “I betrayed Sansa, I betrayed the North, and I let the Mad King’s daughter burn a city to the ground. And then I killed her, after she threatened my family again, and I became a Queenslayer.”

His chest is heaving now, and his collar suddenly stifles him. Sam lifts his hand from his shoulder and leans back in his chair, still not taking his eyes off him. He stares at him for a moment, his eyes round and wide, and then gathers the courage to speak again. “Perhaps she wrote you because she is not angry. Perhaps she is worried about you. But if you turn away, the wall between you will only grow taller and thicker.”

Jon fails to stifle a chuckle. “There’s already a Wall between us, Sam.”

Sam smiles at his own accidental wordplay, too. “What I mean is that you should put your pride aside and talk to her.”

Jon’s eyes widen again. “It’s not pride, Sam.” _Not only that, at least._

“Whatever it is, you need to reply.”

“I know,” Jon sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. “But that won’t change anything.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes,” Jon snaps, glaring at Sam. “I do. This is the kind of person she is,” he spits, holding out the letter, “and this is the kind of person I am,” he concludes, pointing at himself.

Sam looks at him in disbelief for a moment, then his lower lip trembles. “You think you know everything, Jon, but you don’t.”_ Here they are, those words again, back to haunt me._ “You spend all day in a corner, sulking worse than when I met you, frowning and glaring at everyone who talks to you, but let me tell you something,” Sam raises his voice, points at Jon with his finger and rises, “this behaviour you have will lead you nowhere. That woman cares enough about you to put her own pride aside and you keep complaining about how you don’t deserve her?”

Jon jumps to his feet. “I’m not complaining, Sam!”

“Then stop doing whatever you’re doing and write her!”

“So what?” Jon is now screaming louder than Sam, and he can feel his blood pump in his ears. “I promised to protect her and I brought the enemy into our home! She deserves better! She deserves better than me!”

“Then be!”

Jon stares at Sam, chest heaving and fists clenched, and Sam stares back at him glaring like he has never done before. He has never heard his friend yell this loud. The door behind him opens and Ghost appears. He pads towards Jon and observes him curiously, but does not show his teeth at Sam, for he knows him and knows that he is not the real threat here.

Jon’s stubbornness is, and he himself is well aware of that.

“What do you mean?” Jon asks.

“You said she deserves better than you, right? So be that better you’re talking about, be better! Be the Jon I have always known, the one_ she_ has always known, the one you were before everything started crumbling down on you!”

Sam is now smiling, and Jon can feel his anger fade from his body, replaced by exhaustion. He lets out a puff and looks away. “Do you think I really can?”

“Yes!” Sam looks as if he were crazed, with wide eyes and red cheeks. “You can, Jon. You’re still that man, I know that. You only have to believe it, too.”

As if to show his agreement, Ghost nuzzles up against Jon’s leg, and he can feel the warmth of his muzzle through his breeches. “What should I do?”

“Just write her. Read her letter and write back. Be honest, all right? Show her she can trust you. Show her you won’t hurt her anymore.”

_It won’t be easy, but I must try._ “Look, Sam, I’m sorry for yelling, I—”

“No, please, it’s _my_ fault. I shouldn’t have raised my voice.”

“It’s all right,” Jon says, patting Sam’s arm. The two sit again, and Jon pours Sam some fresh water which he swallows down in one big gulp. Now that he is calm again, Jon can really consider his friend’s words. Sam knows him better than anyone else, and is aware of what is right for him. Then why is it so hard for him to see it? “I don’t know how to write a letter, though. I never have.”

“Oh.” Sam’s lips curl into a smile. “It’s not that hard, you know. You can start by telling her what’s going on with your life, how it feels to be here, and—”

“Terrible,” Jon mutters, cutting him off. “That’s how it feels. But I can’t tell her that, or she’ll be worried.”

“Well, tell her you miss her. She’ll like hearing that.”

Jon shakes his head and lets out a mirthless laugh. “I doubt that. I miss Arya and Bran too, but with her, it’s...” He hesitates, for words fail him whenever his tormented mind wanders to her. “Let’s just say that it’s different.”

Sam hums, but that does not make Jon feel any better. “You don’t have to confess your feelings. Just tell her what you do every day, tell her Ghost has fully recovered from the war and the Night’s Watch is recruiting young folks—”

“Sam, she already knows that. She’s the Queen in the North.”

Sam nods shakily. “Well, yes, that’s true. Anyway, you need to be honest, all right?”

“Aye.”

“Good.” Sam pats his own thighs with both hands and stands up. “I need to look for Gilly and the children now. See if they need anything.”

Jon nods and smiles. “When will you go back to the capital?”

“We’ll take our leave in a few days.” Sam smiles. “King Bran was generous enough to allow me to stay here for a while.”

_King Bran_. Words Jon still has yet to get used to. It is almost as if his brother knew how much Jon needed his friend. Is it possible that he sent Sam to him because he knew that he would soon receive Sansa’s letter? No, too silly a thought. Bran has a kingdom to rule, why would he bother with his brother’s problems?

Jon shakes his head and leads the way to the door of the common hall, where other brothers are still breaking their fast. Sam and he hug and Jon follows him with his eyes until he disappears into the snowy courtyard outside. Then, his eyes scan the room for an empty seat.

With Ghost silently following him, he sits down and slides the letter from under his belt. His eyes land on her handwriting again, but this time he does not tear them off the page, and reads it fully.

> _Dear Jon,_
> 
> _please, do not worry. Nothing concerning has happened. I am writing you for we have not talked in moons, and there are many things that, perhaps, you were not informed of yet. Our sister Arya has come back from her journey beyond the Sunset Sea and is currently resting here, at Winterfell. She came home with countless tropical fruits we are struggling to consume because of their “particular” taste. Our brother Bran, the King of the Six Kingdoms, rules wisely in peace. He has recently visited us, spending many days and nights here, and, I must confess, I almost got a glimpse of our former life. As for the North, we have rebuilt most of the winter town, after it was destroyed in the Great War, as well as the parts of Winterfell that perished under dragonfire. I’ve taken many orphaned children, whose fathers have lost their lives in the war, into our castle, as well as their mothers. We have managed to provide them with everything they need to get back to their feet, and once the rebuilding of the winter town is complete, they will be free to return to their homes and back to their regular lives. And you? What have you been up to? You spent years at the Wall when you were only a few years older than the children who crowd Winterfell’s halls and corridors daily, and you have grown a thick skin, but I would be lying if I said I did not spend days worried about you. This time it was not your choice to take the black, and after all that has happened, perhaps you needed to spend some time here, at home, with your family. Arya and I have not forgotten about you, Jon. We miss you with all our hearts and wish that you were here, with us, now that our family is finally reunited._
> 
> _I’m sorry you’re not here. I wish I could have done more._ _Keep care of yourself and write back if you can._
> 
> _Sansa Stark, Queen in the North_

Jon fights back tears and hopes that no one notices how his shoulders shudder with every sob he swallows. Arya is back home, and Jon is glad not only because his little sister is safe, but also because it means that Sansa is not alone anymore. Even Bran was home for a while. And Sansa…oh, _Sansa_. She barely mentions how she is. She mainly focuses on the winter town, the orphaned children…_that_ is the kind of person she is. Selfless, kind, thoughtful of others, family or not. And with Winterfell teeming with people, she must feel less alone, since she has always loved being surrounded by people. _That_ is the life she wants, Jon knows. A castle filled with children, a family like the one she used to have. _That_ is the queen the North chose, the sister Jon is so proud of. Sister…_sister_. She is not his sister, and that is the only thing that comforts him. And her last few lines…his eyes read them again, yet their meaning does not change.

Jon rises from his seat and folds the letter, holding it tight in his hand, and strides towards the exit doors of the common hall. A brother calls to him but he dismisses him quickly and does not care about getting an angry glare in return. Outside, snow drifts down and melts on his cheeks and lashes like the day she appeared at Castle Black when she was alone in the world, just like him. Quickly, he rounds corners, descends stairs and enters the library, where everything is peacefully silent. He lights a candle and looks for some parchment and a quill, and when he finds everything he needs, he takes a deep sigh and prays that his words do not fail him. _She apologised, but I’m the one who should ask for forgiveness._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this chapter, don't be shy and drop a comment to let me know. Thank you in advance :))  
***  
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	2. Letter two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, first of all, I wanna thank everyone who supported the first chapter SO SO much. You guys…every kudos, comment, every silent reader, EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOU, THANK YOU! I was nervous as hell before posting chapter 1 and I wasn’t expecting this kind of reaction AT ALL! So, thank you again if you’re reading. I love writing, but writing while having in mind that someone actually wants to read my stuff…that’s really something else. Thank you guys. I love all of you!
> 
> Also, I like to throw in some anecdotes about things that are canon in the books so if you haven’t read them and don’t recognise the events I refer to, that is probably the reason :)  
PS: forgive my attempt at writing a Westeros-style song. I tried my best lol  
***  
This chapter, just like the first, was beta’d by the amazing **SainTalia**. I swear, I wouldn’t be here without you. Thank you for giving me your time and your advice. You’re a gem.

**Jon**

Everything in Castle Black’s library lies quiet and still, save for Jon’s heart. And hand. He has been restlessly fidgeting the dry quill with his fingers as though that could make his letter write itself, but the parchment before him is still blank and waiting to be filled.

But what should he fill it with?

He sighs and wishes Sam were still here. He could go up and call for him, to ask for his help, but he must be with his family now, and Jon would never bother him with his problems.

_Be honest_, Sam advised him. But how?

Ghost lies on the floor beside his foot and Jon studies his crimson eyes in hopes of finding the words he knows lie in his heart but, somehow, he cannot grasp.

Then, a soft rustle. A breeze along his face. A flap of wings, and a raven lands on his arm. The animal tilts his head and observes Jon, who knows what this means.

“Bran, it’s you. Isn’t it?”

The raven does not speak like the one that belonged to Lord Mormont, so it only flaps its wings once, and Jon interprets it as a _yes_.

_Perhaps you really know what I’m going through._ “What brings you here?”

The bird flaps its wings again.

“As you can see,” he sighs, beckoning at the blank parchment on the dusty wooden table before him, “I could really use some help. But ravens can’t write, can they?”

The raven screeches, and Jon caresses its black head with a finger.

“You’re the wisest man in the world. Bran, how can I use quill and parchment when all I’ve ever done is swing a sword?”

As if to answer his question, the raven hops off Jon’s arm and scurries across the candlelit table and stops in front of him. He instinctively holds his breath, without any notion of what to expect, until the raven pecks three times at his chest. With an _ouch_, he rubs through his black leather jerkin and realises _that_ is where his heart is.

Jon lets out a sarcastic laugh. “Very funny, Bran.” Then, the truth dawns on him, and it sucks all the air from his lungs and replaces it with a realisation as cold as the snow outside. “You know, don’t you?”

The raven flaps its wings.

Jon sighs. “Don’t tell her, do it for me. She mustn’t know.”

Suddenly, the silence of the library is broken by noises coming from upstairs. Steps, thuds and loud screams.

Jon stands up and Ghost gets to all fours. “Stay here,” he tells Bran.

He quickly reaches the main courtyard where two young lads are arguing and many other brothers are gathered in a semicircle around them.

“What’s the meaning of this?”

The taller of the two, with dark hair and a black eye, spins around and glares at Jon. “He hit me.”

The other lad, who is lying on the ground with a rivulet of blood running down his nose, flushes in anger and screams back, “No! _He_ hit me!”

“Enough!” Jon yells, and the two purse their lips. “I don’t bloody care who hit whom.”

The taller cocks his head and shows a grin of crooked and yellow teeth. “You’re Jon Snow, aren’t you?” he asks, but Jon does not reply. “Aye, it’s you! Then why should I take orders from a perjurer and a Queenslayer?”

“You’d better watch your mouth, boy.”

“Or?” The lad stalks closer. He is a few inches taller than Jon, but his arms are not as muscular. “You’ll kill me too?”

Jon feels anger mount, but he is not stupid enough to give this child what he wants. “I said watch—”

Before Jon can even finish, the lad’s fist swings and slams into his face. Jon stumbles back, a sharp pain in his eye. He blinks through the dizziness in his head and sees a white shadow loping past him and landing where the taller lad is. Ghost straddles the lad and a cascade of saliva lands on his bruised face, when he screams, at the top of his lungs, “Yield! Yield! Please!”

“Ghost, to me!” Jon yells, and when the direwolf stalks back towards his master, he runs a calming hand through his fur and mutters, “It’s not worth it.”

Eyes wide in terror as though he had looked death in the face, the boy crawls back as far as he can from Ghost and Jon. Then, a pair of brothers pull the two lads to their feet and drag them towards the Lord Commander’s office.

A worried Sam makes his way through the dispersing crowd and asks, “Jon, are you all right?”

“Aye,” Jon answers, rubbing his eye. “I think it’ll blacken.”

Sam examines his face for a moment. “I think so too. I could prepare you something for the pain.”

“Don’t bother, Sam. I’ve been worse.”

“All right. So, have you replied to Queen Sansa?”

For a brief moment, Jon’s heart stings as sharply as the bruised flesh around his eye. “Not yet. I was trying to, and then I heard noises and came here.”

“I see. Are you sure you don’t need anything for the bruise?”

“No, thank you, Sam.” Jon calls for Ghost and makes to return to the library, but his body fails him and he almost trips over his own feet.

“Jon!” Sam readily grabs his arm and steadies him before he falls. His head still dizzy, Jon tries to convince Sam that he can walk alone but his friend does not want to hear any further word and drags him to his temporary cell.

The room is just like any other at Castle Black: small, grey and cold. Jon lies on a featherbed and watches Sam crushing mysterious ingredients into a mortar. When Sam is done, he sits on the edge of the featherbed and applies a sticky herbal concoction on the skin around Jon’s eye, and then some even on his forehead near his hairline.

“This will help with the dizziness too.”

“Thank you, Sam.” Jon lifts himself up and rests his back on the pillow behind him. “I wasn’t lying when I said I’ve been worse. Why am I feeling like this?”

Sam wipes some concoction away from his fingers with a cloth. “Perhaps you’re just tired. Been sleeping badly recently?”

“Aye.”

“There you have your answer. Try to rest, all right? No straining and no fighting of any sort.”

Jon groans and scratches Ghost’s ear._ I didn’t initiate anything._

“And, Jon…I heard some brothers whisper…did that lad call you—”

“It doesn’t matter, Sam,” he says, interrupting him before he can finish. He lowers his gaze and sighs. “I don’t care.”

“Are you sure?” Sam asks, watching him with wide brown eyes.

Jon nods, and his head swims in dizziness for a bit.

“All right. If you say so.”

—

In the library, the blank parchment is still awaiting him. Bran is gone, and only a few black feathers on the table are what is left of him. Jon blows them away and then sits down again. He should rest, like Sam advised him, but Sansa’s letter has been circling around his mind all day, ever since he received it this morning. The candle he had lit has almost burnt out, so he grabs another to replace it. He watches it flicker, perhaps hoping to find the words in every twist of the little flame, but only one word echoes in his mind.

_Queenslayer_.

Jon would lie if he said he was unaware of what his brothers whispered behind his back when they thought he could not hear them. He does not resent them, really, but it still hurts somehow when he thinks too much about it. He has been called bastard his whole life, but this now…does Sansa call him this too? Would she look at him with disappointment in her eyes for what he did? She despised Daenerys, but he had bent the knee to her, and an oath is still an oath. But killing her was necessary. Tyrion had told him, and even though Jon would have done anything to avoid it, he knew that it was either Daenerys’ blood or Sansa’s, and that of many other innocents, that would have spilled.

But does she know this? Does anyone, really? It does not matter, after all. It would not change anything. He is paying for what he did, and as long as he did for a good cause…

He heaves a deep sigh and the skin around his eye stings when he rubs his temple. He picks up the quill and dips it in the inkwell. _Be honest_, Sam advised him. It is not easy, not easy at all, but he will try, if not for himself, then for her. He owes her his apologies and his honesty, too.

He wonders how he should address her. _Your Grace_? _My queen_? No, the one who thrived whenever he called her _my queen_ is dead and buried. He sighs. _Sansa_? _Sansa_ should be simple enough. And then, he writes the rest. The quill feels as if it does not fit his calloused hand, but as words flow out of him and onto the page, he feels more and more at ease and his fingers mould around it as if it were the familiar hilt of Longclaw. The grey feather on its end flutters with every flick of his wrist, and it is as though the feeble candlelight imitates his movements.

He writes and writes and writes, as nimbly and graciously as when he swings his sword, but then he stops. Should he mention his black eye? No, he does not need to, or she will worry even more about him. She does not need to know about the bruise around his eye or the one on his heart. An unbidden thought tickles his mind. Would it be so wrong if he confessed to her…no, he cannot, he will not. How can he just consider such a thing? She will never know, and the truth about what lies within him will remain sealed deep inside his blackened heart and it will fade when he closes his eyes for the last time. Until then, he will write her as her brother only, for her brother is everything he could ever be.

When he finishes writing his letter, he signs it at the end and seals it, ready to send it. Then he watches it being carried away by a raven, and hopes that his words do not betray him, that the dry ink on that parchment does not reveal too much.

He shakes his head. It will not. He wrote her back as a brother, he apologised as a brother, and he loves her as a brother loves his sister. That is all she needs to know.

**Sansa**

“Queen Sansa, for you.” She turns around to where the little voice comes and sees a small boy looking up at her with some flowers in his hand and a grin plastered on his freckled face.

“Oh, thank you,” Sansa says as she crouches down and takes the bouquet of poppies and buttercups from his tiny hand. “Did you pick these for me?”

“Aye,” the child answers. Before Sansa can proceed with another question a woman with a weathered face and the same brown eyes appears and grabs him by the shoulders, gently pulling him back.

“Please, forgive him, Y’Grace,” the woman says. “Sorry if he ain’t nice.”

Sansa stands up, inches taller than the woman. “You don’t need to apologise. He was polite and kind.” Her eyes land on the child’s face. “How should I call you?”

“Gared,” he blurts out excitedly. “And this Alise,” he adds, pointing at his mother, “mum.”

The woman shoots Sansa a nervous grin, and she returns the smile. She then looks at the child again. “I suppose you’ll stay here with the other children, won’t you, Gared?”

The boy nods. “I can’t wait!”

“Good,” Sansa says. “And thank you again for the flowers. I will keep them with me.”

The woman dips in an awkward curtsy and the boy clumsily imitates her, and then the two take their leave. With the flowers still in hand, Sansa follows the boy with her eyes and sees him sit down on the cushions with the other children in the middle of the Great Hall, when Brienne approaches her.

“Your Grace,” she says. “It’s very admirable of you to engage in conversation with your subjects, but it would be wiser not to stand too close to them without your Queensguard by your side.”

Sansa chuckles and twirls the flowers between two fingers. “Ser Brienne, you don’t need to worry.” She gestures at the crowd of children and mothers a few feet from them. “Look around you. Do any of them look like someone who might hurt me?”

Ser Brienne’s lips twitch into a shy smile. “No, Your Grace.”

Sansa smiles as well and walks towards the high table where her throne is waiting for her. Every full moon, a singer visits Winterfell to entertain the northern court and the people of the smallfolk who live in the castle alike. This afternoon, even some villagers from the winter town have arrived for the little spectacle of Sunface the Fool.

“What are those?” Arya asks nodding at the flowers when Sansa sits herself on the throne.

“One of the children gave them to me.”

Arya adjusts herself in her chair. “You’d better pray they’re not itching.”

“Arya, they’re poppies and buttercups. And if I’m not mistaken, you were the one who ended up with a rash on your arms once.”

Arya looks lost for a short moment and then a chuckle comes out of her. “From the flowers I gave father after we left Winterfell. You still remember?”

Sansa lowers her gaze. “I remember everything.”

A silence follows, but it does not last long, for Lord Royce, the Hand of the Queen, approaches her and brings his mouth close to her ear.

“Your Grace,” he whispers, “a raven came from Castle Black.”

A quiver traverses Sansa’s heart. _Jon_. Jon has received her letter and now his reply has flown all the way from the Wall. If she were allowed to follow her instincts, she would jump to her feet and run to her solar, where his letter must await her, but she knows what befits a queen. Instead, she stifles her excitement and speaks in the calmest tone.

“Thank you for informing me, Lord Royce. I will get to it later.” The old man dutifully bows his head and sits himself at her right.

“So, you wrote him,” Arya says, leaning closer to her.

Sansa does not reply, but her silence is enough for her sister to understand.

“Good. I’m slightly less worried. Now I’m just bored.”

“_Bored_?”

“You know I’ve never loved fools or singers,” Arya complains.

“Then why are you here? Isn’t there someone you could spar with in the courtyard?”

Arya shakes her head. “Ser Brienne is here, and all the guards fight like children. Besides, I thought that after being away for so long I’d spend some time with you.”

Sansa feels her heart warm at her sister’s words. “I’d be happy if you stayed,” she says, and Arya smiles back at her.

Sunface the Fool enters the Great Hall cartwheeling, dressed in a suit with blue stripes and a thousand little yellow suns. All the children watch him as if hypnotised, and when he pulls a dozen yellow chicks out of his sleeve, they exclaim and clap in awe.

“I’ve seen a trick like that once, in King’s Landing,” Sansa says, and Arya smirks.

“It’d be more fun if he used knives instead of chicks.”

Sansa rolls her eyes and laughs at her sister’s joke, and then her eyes focus on Sunface again.

The fool stops in the middle of the hall, on the opposite side of the high table, and bows before the queen. He then turns around on one leg and starts bouncing among the children, his foot light as a feather every time it touches the ground, and then juggles some oranges on his head. Then, some servants arrive carrying trays laden with bread, eggs, fruits and cakes, and the children squeal in delight at the sight of the food. They all eat and clap their tiny hands happily, and even their mothers seem to be enjoying themselves. Among the crowd, Sansa spots Alise who, for a brief moment, looks at her and smiles, and Sansa nods with her head and smiles back in acknowledgement.

After impressing his public with a few more breathtaking tricks, Sunface lands graciously on his feet before Sansa.

“May I sing for the Queen and Her little guests?”

_Sing! Sing! Sing! Sing!_ all the children start to chant, and Sansa smiles and nods. “I’d love to hear your singing voice.”

The fool takes a bow and then clears his throat. He begins by singing _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_, and then other songs like _Fair Maids of Summer_ follow. Sansa’s eyes run among the crowd and on every little adoring face and her heart fills with joy when she sees that all the children are having fun.

Then, her mind wanders to the letter awaiting her.

She trembles when she thinks of him. She pictures everything in her mind; all wrapped in furs, he would skim her words with grey eyes and would perhaps smile every now and then. Then, he would pick up a quill and start writing his answer. How sweet it feels to imagine him, and it feels so real…until she remembers that he is so far away from her, both physically and emotionally. But she does not despair, for his letter is awaiting her, and as Sunface sings the last notes of _Flowers of Spring_, her heart flutters like a bird in a cage waiting to be finally released.

The fool inhales deeply and his chest grows twice its size. He starts singing again, but this time Sansa does not know the words.

“What song is this now?” Arya leans closer and asks.

“I don’t know,” Sansa replies, adjusting her crown. “I guess we must wait and listen.”

> _A king crowned with ice we feared,_
> 
> _A warrior princess ran and appeared,_
> 
> _Shattered his frost-bitten heart,_
> 
> _And now her deeds are sung by a humble bard._

“It’s you he’s singing about,” Sansa whispers, reaching out for Arya’s hand, and a warm smile softens her sister’s features when everyone turns around to look at her.

> _But she was not alone,_
> 
> _In that lonely grove._
> 
> _A lord white as a wolf,_
> 
> _And a queen with scales then rode,_
> 
> _Into battle she rode,_
> 
> _A queen with scales her dragon rode,_
> 
> _And hers and the lord’s is the love that saved the world,_
> 
> _The dragon and the wolf, theirs is the love that saved the world._

Sansa’s hand freezes on Arya’s and out of the corner of her eye she sees her sister turn her head to look at her. Her heart sinks to her stomach and her jaw clenches. Why is he singing those words? Why now? Why? She wishes he would stop, but he goes on, and the song about the love between the dragon and the wolf continues.

She tries to stay calm but is too much to bear.

She swiftly rises from the throne and the music stops. Her blood rushes to her ears and she desperately wishes her usual mask does not betray her when everybody’s eyes set on her.

“Your Grace,” her Hand says, “if you’ve grown tired of the fool’s music, I could have him sent away.”

Sansa swallows but her mouth is drier than a desert. “No, Lord Royce, I could never allow that. The children are enjoying it.” She forces a smile and notices Arya and Ser Brienne looking at her with concern painted on their faces.

“What should we do, then?” Lord Royce asks.

Sansa shoots a look at the fool, who is watching her with terrified eyes. _If I were Joffrey, I would have his tongue cut out._

“Please, continue without me,” she says, her voice sharp and cold as an ice lance. “And don’t forget to pay him well before he leaves.”

Then, she disappears out of the hall and after a while the singing and the clapping resumes, and she hopes that the whole court has actually forgotten about her.

Careful not to look distraught in front of the many servants who walk through the Great Keep’s corridors, she strides towards the main staircase with her mask still on. Her blood still pumping fast, she does not even realise she is climbing the stairs when she finds herself in her solar, and only then, when she is alone, she can allow her real feelings to transpire.

The room is quiet, yet it does not help soothe her nerves. She remembers about the flowers still between her fingers, so she pours some water into a vase and puts the bouquet inside it.

Then, she fills a goblet with honeyed wine for herself and brings it to her lips, hoping that it could ease the mounting anger in her stomach. Instead, the rage does not fade but lingers there, and knocks and knocks on her heart’s door. She then glances at the letter on her desk and jealousy ties her stomach into the tightest of knots.

There is a knock at the _real_ door.

She sniffs and sips on some wine to prevent tears from falling. She clears her throat. “Come in.”

“Your Grace.” Ser Brienne looks from behind the ajar door and waits for Sansa to nod her permission to enter. When she does, the Commander of her Queensguard steps into the solar and closes the door behind her. “What happened?”

Sansa cannot even bear to look the knight in the eye. “Nothing,” she says, turning around to face the windows. “I grew tired of the fool’s music.”

“You’ve always loved songs,” Ser Brienne points out, and Sansa hears her step closer.

She takes another sip of wine, yet her throat burns all the same. “You don’t need to worry about me, Ser Brienne. I’m fine.”

A silence follows. Sansa tries to look as if nothing is bothering her, but highly doubts that the mask proves effective now. Brienne stands behind her at a distance lest she invade her queen’s space, but Sansa is well aware that the woman is watching her.

“I might know what is bothering you,” Brienne finally says, and it brings a sort of relief that Sansa certainly was not expecting.

She whips around in a rustle of skirts and holds her chin high. “Do you?”

Brienne falters for a moment but then straightens her back. “Forgive me, Your Grace, I didn’t want to presume.”

“It’s too late to retreat now, you’ve already spoken. Tell me what you think.”

Brienne blinks as though she was not expecting such a reaction. “I believe the fool’s song bothered you. The one about the…dragon and the wolf.”

Sansa lets out a dry laugh and drinks some more wine. “Am I really that transparent?”

Brienne lowers her gaze. “I only worry about your wellbeing. That is all.”

Sansa observes her for a moment. “Were you ever jealous of Cersei?”

Brienne’s cheeks become a violent red. “Your Grace?”

“You heard me. Were you jealous of her?”

“Your Grace, I would rather not speak ill of the dead—”

“Oh, _please_. I’ve only asked you a question. And were you to answer, she would not rise from the dead to hunt you. The dead can’t do that. Not anymore, at least.”

Brienne’s darts her tongue out to lick her large lips and clears her throat. “I guess I…occasionally thought of her. Yes.”

Sansa wets her lips with more wine. “Of course. Did you ever consider that, perhaps, her brother would kill her for you?”

Brienne’s red cheeks pale to a ghostly white. “I…I don’t think so. Jaim—Ser Jaime would never speak of her in front of me.”

Sansa sighs. “You know, you were right. That song bothered me. And it bothered me for the wrong reasons.” She places the empty goblet on her desk and picks up Jon’s letter. “My brother wrote me. Well, I guess I can’t call him _that_ anymore. He wrote me after I wrote him, after moons and moons I’ve spent here thinking of him. I’ve waited for days and nights for his reply and now that I’ve got it…” She pauses, and her eyes glide to the burning hearth. “I don’t know if I want to read it anymore.”

Brienne steps closer. “What will you do? Will you throw that away?”

Sansa glances at her and smiles weakly. “Perhaps I should. Perhaps I should throw it in the fire. After all, he wouldn’t even care.”

“No,” Brienne says, stepping closer yet, “I think he would. He wrote you back, which means that he cares enough to—”

Sansa’s voice cracks. “If I hadn’t written him, he never would have.”

Brienne looks at her with wide eyes that beg her to calm. “Your Grace, perhaps you drank too much. Let me get you some water.”

The knight reaches the other side of the solar with a few long strides and quickly approaches her with a cup full of water. Tears start running down her cheeks as Sansa grabs the cup with shaking hands and brings it to her lips. The water feels soft and calming as a caress of the mother she has lost. What would Lady Catelyn think of her daughter if she saw her now? She empties the cup and sniffs at the thought, biting her lip to suppress any further sob.

“Your Grace, you should stop blaming yourself for everything that’s happened.”

“Oh, I’m not blaming myself. It’s his fault. His, and no one else’s. What was he thinking when he bent the knee? What was he thinking when he brought her here? She thought that she could fool me with false courtesies upon arriving, ha! And then she threatened me in front of the whole northern court. She was powerful and pretty, yes, but she was not clever. And do you know what the worst part of it all was, Brienne?”

Brienne shakes her head. “No, I don’t.”

Sansa gulps before more tears can spill. “The worst part was that _he_ let her do all of that.” She sets down the empty cup on the desk and smoothes out inexistent wrinkles on her gown. Perhaps she has said too much, but as her hands still shake from the anger she does not care anymore. Arya knows, Brienne knows, and she does not care. Why should she still pretend? It would be pointless to feign concern for a lost brother when all that haunts her is the jealousy for a man who has never loved her.

“Your Grace,” Brienne says, and Sansa’s eyes flicker up to meet hers. “You asked me if I…if I feared Cersei. There is a difference between Ser Jaime and Lord Snow. A difference that, perhaps, you ignore.”

Sansa does not follow her, but grows intrigued. “Continue.”

Brienne gulps and licks her lips. “When…when we were together, Ser Jaime and I, I knew that our time was limited. I knew that, sooner or later, he would run to his sister. Deep down…” Brienne’s eyes fly shut as if it hurts like a knife through the heart to utter these words. “Deep down, I knew it would have come to an end. And when it did, I begged him to stay. But I knew that he couldn’t. He left the North and ran to her, and they died together, like they had come into this world.”

Sansa steps closer and places a comfortinghand on the knight’s shoulder. “Brienne, please, you don’t have to—”

“Lord Snow didn’t do any of that. He could have. He could have stayed with her, in King’s Landing or elsewhere, but he didn’t. Instead, he killed her. Plunged a knife into her heart. He didn’t choose her. He chose _you_.”

Sansa steps back. She has always known what had happened that day in the Red Keep’s ruins in front of the Iron Throne, but the latter part of Brienne’s speech does not sound quite right. “He didn’t do that for me. He did it for the realm.”

“That’s not the only reason,” Brienne tuts. “He did it to prevent further massacres, yes, but Lord Tyrion had warned him earlier that day that she would have also come for every lord and lady who dared oppose her. And you were already in her line of fire…quite literally.”

Sansa is at a loss for words for a moment. “How do you know all this?” she asks, yet she is sure she knows the answer already.

“Lord Tyrion,” Brienne answers. “He told me when I was still serving your brother as Commander of the Kingsguard.”

Sansa sighs and rubs her temples. “Jon never told me any of that. I mean, I was aware that she would’ve come for me eventually, but he never told me the exact reason he killed her.”

Brienne gives her a small smile. “He’s a man of few words.” _Oh, I know he is. That is very Jon_. “Your Grace, I can’t say I know Lord Snow much, but from what I saw when we were at Castle Black and after you took back Winterfell, it is clear that he deeply cares about you. So perhaps—”

The door creaks and both of them turn towards it. Arya’s slim figure appears and slides into the room as quick as a shadowcat.

“Sansa, are you all right?”

Sansa does not reply but looks at Brienne who was already staring at her queen. “You may go,” she says, and Brienne bows her head and leaves, her hand on the hilt of the sword that is half of Ice.

Sansa smiles weakly at her sister. “Why aren’t you with the rest of the court?”

“Told you. I hate fools.” But Sansa knows that is not the only reason. “Why did you run away?”

Sansa scoffs. “_Run away_? Did I look like I was running away?”

“Sansa, stop with that. Just tell me the truth. I’ll find out anyway.”

Sansa inhales deeply and finally the ice around her heart melts. “You were right. It didn’t sit well with me that Jon bedded her. It still doesn’t sit well with me, actually, and the fool’s song was too much for me to bear.”

Arya blinks her grey eyes which look so much like Jon’s. “Did you tell Brienne that?”

“I didn’t need to. She already knew. I guess everyone knows by now, right?”

Arya shakes her head. “You needn’t worry. You’re good at pretending, and nobody knows you that well apart from me and her.”

_Jon knows me that well. He still does, doesn’t he? Would he find out if he looked at me?_

Arya shoots a look at the unsealed letter on Sansa’s desk. “You didn’t read that?”

“I don’t know if I want to.”

“Of course you do. Or did you forget how you fretted before writing him?”

Sansa sighs and starts pacing around the room. “I thought I didn’t care about his apologies. I thought that all I wanted was to have him home, but now…” She pauses and swallows down the shame that gathers in her throat and almost chokes her._ Jon was exiled at the Wall, how could you ever say this?_ “…now, I think that if he were here, I don’t even know if I’d look him in the eye.”

She expects her sister to glare at her, or scold her, but all Arya does is nod. “I don’t blame you.”

Sansa cannot believe it. “Am I not a terrible person?”

Arya scoffs. “Sansa, stop. You’re not terrible, and Jon made many, _many_ mistakes. Actually, with everything that’s happened to you, you’ve managed to remain good. And that’s admirable.”

Sansa wants to believe her sister’s words, but she cannot help but be skeptical. “But we’ve seen what happens when a good person loses control.”

“Daenerys Targaryen was not a good person, and you know it. Even Jon knew it. That’s why he killed her.”

Sansa lets out a mirthless laughter. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Look, Sansa, Jon may be a bloody idiot sometimes, but he’s not completely stupid. And if there’s some sort of sense left in his head, then he knows what he’s guilty of, and he’ll try to remedy.” Arya quickly grabs the unread letter from Sansa’s desk and holds it out before her. “Will you read this now, please?”

Sansa picks the letter and nods.

“Good. The little show in the Great Hall must be over already. Now, I’m going to rest. I’m exhausted.”

Arya whips around but Sansa calls her name. “Will you…will you sleep with me tonight?”

She looks startled by her sudden question. “We haven’t done that in a long time.”

“I know, but I…I don’t feel like sleeping alone for tonight.”

A warm smile twists Arya’s stern features in a way that makes Sansa feel like her sister really comprehends her. “All right.”

She turns to leave, but Sansa prevents her from doing so again. “Arya, just because I talked with Brienne, does not mean that I don’t feel comfortable enough to do so with you.”

Arya smiles. “Don’t worry, Sansa. You must do as you please. I must admit that it’s a bit strange for me, given that Jon is my brother. But if that makes you feel better, you can talk to me whenever you want.”

“Thank you, Arya.”

“You’re welcome. Now, please, read that,” she says, nodding at the letter.

With that, her sister leaves and Sansa knows what she must do now.

Hear heart thunders fast and her fingers shake as she tears away the black seal and unfolds the letter. Her vision is immediately filled with words in black ink and, above anything else, her name in his own hand catches her attention.

> _Sansa,_
> 
> _I thank you for writing me. You know me so well that the purpose of your first lines was to reassure me, and I am glad for that. I am also glad that Arya is back home. I hope her travels went well and I pray that the places she visited were even better than those she had imagined. Little Bran was there, too, for a while. “Little”, but not so much, is he? He is a man now. And a king. The best king the Six Kingdoms could get after the wars that tore them apart for years. I am glad that the winter town is almost rebuilt, and that those who lost their homes were taken into Winterfell. The Great Keep has enough featherbeds and hearths to warm them all. As for me, life at the Wall goes calmly. Sam has come for a visit, and we have had a chance to chat for a bit with a good tankard of ale. Apart from his occasional stay, the days here pass as placidly as one would expect when you live at the ends of the world. I spend most of my time at Castle Black with Ghost, tending the horses and gathering supplies for weaponry, and it is even more than what I deserve._
> 
> _Anyway, as I have told you the day we last saw each other, you are the best the North could ever ask for. You are the monarch I could never bring myself to be, the one the northern lords should have chosen after we won back Winterfell from the Boltons. Sansa, this is not easy for me. I have never done something like this, so if you would rather toss this in the fire than read these scrappy words, I would not blame you. There is not much to say, really. I should have been a better brother to you. There are many things I rue to this day, and one of them is leaving you alone to fight the battles that almost destroyed your kingdom and our family. I will never forgive myself for putting your life in peril, and to live like this until the end of my days is what I deserve for my terrible crimes. Do not apologise, Sansa, you could not save me. And, quite frankly, I am not sure you should have._
> 
> _I miss you and Bran and Arya too._
> 
> _Jon Snow_

After reading the letter, Sansa closes her eyes and presses it hard on her chest. She clutches it over the wool of her gown, under which her heart thunders and thunders, and tears almost start falling again. But this time she breathes deeply and fights them before they can flood her eyes. Jon, oh Jon. He is a steward, then, like he was before he became Lord Commander, ages ago. Not a ranger like uncle Benjen. He is tired of swinging his sword, Sansa knows that. She still remembers how deep the dark circles under his eyes were when she convinced him to fight for their home.

How much time has passed? Sansa can hardly tell. Everything was different back then. Winterfell was still infested with enemies, and what remained of their family was still scattered around the world, with Arya beyond the Narrow Sea and Bran on the other side of the Wall. But in that small room at Castle Black, with Jon by her side and a tankard of sour ale she had almost choked on, Sansa had felt at home for the first time in ages.

And now, her family is safe and reunited, but her heart is still missing a piece.

She reads Jon’s letter again. He does not resent her, like she had been so sure of, does he? _You are the monarch I could never bring myself to be._ Oh, Jon. Jon, Jon, Jon! She wishes he were there so she could tell him that he was good at ruling and together they could have made the North prosper. She has never cared about wearing a crown, and she would have been content with him ruling instead of her. But it is pointless now to dwell in the past, for it is long gone, just like the man she loves.

Because she loves him. Sansa loves him…but she can reach him only through words in dry ink and promises lost in the wind.

And Arya was right. He knows he made mistakes. He knows. He _does_ feel guilty. If only they could talk about it…

She opens her eyes and sets down the letter on her desk, near a thin burning candle. She sighs, and her mind keeps echoing his words, and she can almost taste their bitterness in her mouth. He thinks he does not deserve to be here with them, in his home. He probably does not even consider these very walls to be his home anymore. And when he mentions how he should have been a better brother…that last word hurts like a piece of shattered glass plunging into her heart. _Brother_. Of course he would refer to himself as that, what did she expect? She is used to it by now. She has been hiding the true nature of her feelings ever since she saw him coming back from Dragonstone, when the way her stomach twisted whenever she laid eyes upon him was shameful and forbidden. That was when she knew that everything had changed for her. For her. _But not for him._

Sansa brushes away an unbidden tear and picks up the candle. She uses it to illuminate the path that leads her to her bedchambers, where everything is dark and quiet, for Arya is already sleeping. She places the candle on the small table beside her bed and strips down. She sneaks under the furs beside Arya and her eyes set on the candlelight which trembles and flickers and casts shapeless shadows on the stone walls. Then she allows her eyes to close, and her mind wanders. She thinks of Jon, of Daenerys, of how she would walk around Winterfell with her chin high and her arm hooked under his. She remembers Ser Davos’ and Varys’ whispers about them, and she thinks of the fool who, unbeknownst to himself, awoke the bitter feelings she had thought buried deeply within her.

_He wrote back_, she thinks, and her stomach warms a little, but then sadness digs its sharp claws into her tender heart when she remembers that he does not love himself…or her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to _Cinnamon Girl_ by LDR while writing Sansa’s POV and it really helped me in a way. I don't know if this kind of music is your cup of tea, but I really recommend you this song :)  
***  
If you're enjoying the story so far and would like to see more, consider dropping a comment to let me know :) your opinions matter guys. They really do.


	3. Letter three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I know it's been two weeks since chapter 2 but I updated my other WIP twice last week so I didn't have much time to continue this one. But here we are now!  
Note: it's not my intention to retcon anything that happened in the show apart from one thing: Bran's title. Since "the Broken" is extremely disrespectful, I chose "Bran the Rebuilder" instead. I've seen that some use it as well so, yep. Bran deserves better.  
***  
As always, thank you **SainTalia** not only for polishing my chapter but also for listening to my doubts and giving me the best advice I could ever receive. Thank you, really.

**Sansa**

_Why her?_ Sansa cannot help but wonder. Jon is there, standing a few inches from her, and he is so close that she can feel the warmth his body radiates. She sighs and glances at her goblet. Half-full. Or half-empty, really? She looks about. Brienne, Ser Jaime, Lord Tyrion, Podrick, Sam; they are all happy, celebrating life’s victory over death. She still cannot believe that she is alive. Yet why does she feel as empty as her goblet?

She glances up at Jon. _Jon_. The wine makes her mind slow and Tormund says something she cannot quite decipher, but she is quick to pick up on it.

Jon groans. “I can’t drink it all in one go.”

“Aye, you can,” Tormund incites him, his eyes glimmering. “You’re a small man, but you can make it.”

Jon scoffs and turns his head towards Sansa. His eyes take her by surprise, and she steels herself before he catches her flinching. “Do you think I should?”

She feels her heart soar. “Go on, I believe in you.”

Reluctant, Jon brings his tankard to his lips and swallows all his ale in one big gulp. Tormund and the other wildlings cheer him, and a genuine smile pulls at his lips, digging two little dimples Sansa had not seen in a long time.

_He looks so—_

He turns around. Sansa whips her head in the direction of Jon’s gaze and poison spreads in her stomach. _Why her? _She glances up at Jon again. He is still smiling, his dimples still in sight, gleaming as much as the woman his smile is directed to.

Sansa rises and slides away from the high table. Her usual lady mask in place, she keeps her gaze downcast and follows the veining on the stone floor out of the Great Hall. The sound of men feasting and chanting merrily fades behind her and is quickly replaced by the sound of her own boots clinking against the hard cold stones with every step she takes. One, two, three, she finds herself in her bedchambers. The hearth is burning, the scaled fabric of her dress is heavy, yet her blood is running cold in her veins, as cold as the snow outside.

She sits on the edge of her bed and buries her face in her hands. _Why her?_ That question keeps tormenting her. It feels as if someone is ripping her heart apart, lacerating its tender flesh with venomous fangs and claws. She sighs, and another question comes to her mind.

_Why him?_

It is unnatural what she is feeling. Disgusting. Abhorrent. Jon is her brother, he is the son of his father, and he should not be anything else. He _cannot_ be anything else. Yet…

The door flings open.

Her heart stops when Jon’s grey eyes clash against hers.

_Why is he here? He never followed me after…_

“Why did you leave?”

Her eyes widen and her breath hitches. She tries to answer but her tongue is numb and words escape her.

She eventually gathers some strength and manages to get to her feet. “You should’ve knocked.”

“Forgive me,” Jon says. He slowly steps closer, careful not to invade her space, and she is glad for that. “So, why did you leave?”

She gulps. “I grew tired.”

He steps closer yet, the firelight bringing a warm colour to his cheeks already flushed from the ale. “Tired of what?”

_Of the way you looked at her._ “Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be celebrating with your friends?”

“I don’t want to celebrate without you.”

Sansa feels her legs shake like leaves in the wind. “How so?”

His hand slowly lands on her forearm, his touch so soft she can barely feel it through the fabric, yet it is enough to give her gooseflesh. “Sansa…there is something you should know. About me.”

_Of course. What did I expect?_ She scoffs. “I already know. I saw the way you looked at her.”

Jon’s dark eyes narrow. “_Her_?”

Sansa chews on her lower lip and nods. “Don’t worry, Jon. You’re my brother and I will try to tolerate Daenerys for you. I promise.”

A laugh comes out of Jon’s throat and resonates throughout the dimly lit room. Then, his features harden and his stern northern look is back on his face. “Sansa…that is what I wanted to talk about.” He shuts his eyes and sighs, and Sansa is unable to add anything, so she just stands there and waits. “You are not my sister, Sansa. I am not your brother.”

_Wait, this never happened…_

Sansa reels back a pace. “What are you saying? Are you in your cups, Jon?”

He shakes his head and reaches her before she can disappear into the shadows. “I am not Eddard Stark’s son, Sansa. My mother was Lyanna Stark. And my father was…Rhaegar Targaryen.”

The room starts spinning. Sansa’s stomach twists and churns and she opens her mouth to breathe but air does not reach her lungs. She must look ridiculous by now, she knows, with her eyes wide and her mouth stuttering, incapable of forming any word.

“Is this some kind of joke?” she finally manages to ask, perhaps too brusquely.

“Of course not,” he says, and his hand finds his arm again. But it does not linger there. Sansa stands frozen with bated breath as Jon’s fingers slowly travel past her elbow, up her shoulder and settle on her cheek after softly skimming her neck. Her breathing quickens and her heart almost bursts out of her ribcage when he leans so close their noses almost touch.

“I don’t love her, Sansa,” he whispers, his heart-shaped lips releasing the only words she needs to hear. “I never have, I never will.” He gently caresses the skin of her cheek with his thumb, and catches a furtive tear that falls from her eye. “Don’t cry, Sansa. You’ve wept enough already.” His voice is delicate and nurturing, like a song, and she realises she could listen to it until the end of time. “I am not your brother, Sansa.” He says it again, and this time it does not sound as surreal.

She gathers the courage to lift her gaze, but when her eyes meet his, her tongue knots again. Words fail her, but words prove themselves unnecessary when he wraps his arms around her and his lips find her skin. Slowly, he kisses the corners of her mouth. He hesitates at first, holding himself back lest she shove him away, but when she does not, he understands he is allowed to continue.

His lips set her skin on fire. They travel down, lingering on her chin, clasping and gently sucking where the curve of her neck begins. From there they slowly drift down and nestle themselves between her ear and her clavicle. He kisses her there. She gasps for air, her limbs melting in his warm embrace, her sleeping heart awaking like a swallow in spring. His lips are soft and delicate, careful and attentive, yet they burn, burn, burn.

Without her realising it, her hands move of their own accord. She runs them through his hair and she presses him closer to herself, closer to the little skin her dress shows. Clearly encouraged, he sucks harder, nips at it just a little, hooks a hand behind her neck to secure his grip. Her mind is empty, all her thoughts swept away by Jon’s lips feasting on her. His lips clash with her skin and the wet sounds that they make fill her ears. Desire stirs within her, awaking parts of her body that she thought irredeemably lost. She loves him, she loves him, and he loves her, she is sure.

His lips are wild now, and she lets herself be engulfed by him. His beard scratches her skin and she adores it but it is not enough. She hungers for more. She cups his cheeks and guides his gaze into hers. His piercing eyes shine like embers. He is shaking as much as her, and she pants in anticipation. He is so close, his lips almost touching hers. He leans closer and closer and she closes her eyes, ready to—

Sansa wakes up breathless, her limbs tangled in the linens of her bed. She gapes at the canopy above her head and the chirping of birds filters through the shut windows and reaches her ears. She closes her eyes, wishing that she could see Jon again, touch him again, but he is gone, just like her dream. _That never happened, did it?_ No, he never followed her after she left the high table. And he certainly never tried to kiss her. It was only a dream, nothing more, and now that slumber fades from her mind and reality dawns on her, a bitter taste curls in her mouth.

She sighs and lifts herself up. Behind the dressing screen she recognises Arya’s slim figure. Fully dressed, her sister smiles at her. “Oh, you’re awake.”

Sansa nods. “Apparently.”

“You moved in your sleep. Did you have a nightmare?”

“I don’t remember,” she lies.

“Anyway, I’ll do what you said I should do yesterday. Sparring with Brienne.”

“That’s good,” Sansa says, getting out of bed. “At least you’ll busy yourself. As for me, I’ll listen to some petitions today.”

Arya hums and makes for the door. “Did you manage to read the letter?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

She takes a deep breath. “That he misses us and Sam visited him.” She should also tell her sister that he apologised, but her mind is still sleepy and she finds that irrelevant now.

“I see. At least he wrote you back.”

“I guess that’s something,” she sighs.

“Will you write him again?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” _What else could I say to him?_

“Is one letter enough for you? For _both_ of you?”

“You know he’s not a man of many words.”

“He’s not, but he’ll appreciate receiving another letter. I know that,” Arya sighs. “Are you still angry about yesterday?”

Sansa shrugs. “I guess I’m angry about it every day.”

“I’m sorry.” Arya’s lips part but then they tremble and shut again. “I’m not good at these things. When Gendry proposed to me I panicked. I wish I could help you, but—”

Sansa smiles and rubs her eyes. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll think about it.”

“All right.” Arya’s lips curl into a smile. “I’ll see you downstairs?”

Sansa nods. “I just need to get dressed.”

Arya smiles at her one last time and then takes her leave. Still seated, Sansa stretches out her arms and her bones creak as if she had slept for thousands of years. Every trace of the jealousy and anger she felt the previous night has disappeared, and only a hint of sadness accompanies her now. Should she write him another letter? Should she tell him about the fool? How his song had made her feel? As she gets dressed, her fingers absent-mindedly tying the laces of her bodice, she realises he must not know. What would he think if she told him how her heart had sunk to her stomach? That did not happen to Arya, so how can she explain why it happened to her?

Sansa descends the main staircase and heads to the morning hall. As she breaks her fast with her sister, Brienne approaches her and politely asks how she feels. She reassures the knight and proceeds to fill her stomach with a boiled egg, two lemoncakes and some blueberries. She washes it all down with some tea and then gets ready for the petitions awaiting her.

“Your Grace,” Lord Royce says, bowing his head. He sits next to the throne at the high table and calls for the first petitioner of the day to talk.

A young maid steps forward from the small crowd. She wears a long-sleeved battered dress which once must have been yellow and a grey shawl over her shoulders. Her brown hair is long and tied at the top of her head in the style of most northern women, ladies and lowborn alike.

“Your Grace.” She dips in a curtsy that could use some practice and comes a little closer.

“You may speak,” Sansa says, smiling at her.

The girl swallows. “I was out with the animals, Y’Grace. You know, hens, pigs, and other beasts alike. I was out and I heard a loud noise. Like things breaking. The roof of our house fell, Y’Grace. It fell down, it did. My mother was inside and…” The girl’s voice cracks and tears fill her eyes. “The roof fell on my mother. She didn’t die, she did not, but she sleeps all day and can’t walk no more. Most of the animals died of fear and now I have to take care of my mother and my little brother. We’ve lost our house, we’ve lost the animals and…” She pauses and wipes away tears with her sleeve. “I don’t know how to…how to…” Her voice trails off and she sobs, her whole body shaking as tears keep falling down her cheeks. A little boy sneaks out of the crowd and hugs her legs. _Gared_. Sansa immediately recognises his freckled face._ It’s the boy who gave me flowers yesterday. It’s his mother…their mother she’s talking about. _“I don’t know what to do, Y’Grace,” she manages to say as she puts a hand on her brother’s little head.

Sansa swallows down. “I see.” She considers the alternatives for a moment, before declaring, “The rebuilding of your house will begin at once, and we will provide you with new animals. Until your house is completed, you can stay here at Winterfell, with your mother and brother.”

The girl lets out a shaking sigh of relief and falls to her knees. She joins her hands before her and says, “Thank you, Y’Grace! Thank you!”

“Rise,” Sansa says. “You needn’t thank me.”

The girl does so and takes her brother’s hand. As the two walk back into the crowd, and the next petitioner steps forward, Lord Royce leans closer to her and whispers, “That makes three more villagers you’ve already taken in, Your Grace.”

“I know,” she says. “I’ll take them all in if that’s necessary.”

Lord Royce does not argue but slightly bows his head and scribbles something on a book of account.

Book. Parchment. Quill. Ink. _Jon_.

Her mind wanders and takes her to him. Her dream had felt so…_real_. Even now that she thinks about it, she can still feel the heat that had spread in her lower belly while she was lying in bed and seeing it all in her mind. He would have kissed her if she had not woken up. She wonders what it would be like to kiss him. When he was still here at Winterfell, she had indulged in imagining that more times that she wants to admit. She had imagined it happening in various places: in her bedchambers, in _his_ bedchambers, on the battlements, even in the godswood. She imagined him, his cheeks flushed from the cold, gently pressing her body against the white bark of the heart-tree, its glistening red leaves all around them. He would take her hand and guide it to his beating heart and then his lips would meet hers, slowly and delicately, moulding in the softest of kisses. It would be like in the songs. Her gallant knight rescuing her from her nightmares, proving to her that she is not a fool for dreaming of true love.

But gallant knights do not exist, she has learned, and Jon is no exception.

The rest of the morning goes on like any other regular day at Winterfell. Various petitioners come forward, each with their own issues; burned houses, squabbles between neighbours, stolen harvests and animals. Once all the people of the smallfolk are gone, Sansa, accompanied by her Hand and the Commander of the Queensguard, personally checks on Gared’s family to ensure their needs are met.

Lord Royce leads the way down the many corridors that lead to the cell they are looking for. As Ser Brienne follows her close behind, her armour clinks with every step. Once they arrive, Sansa knocks on the door of one of the cells, and it does not take long for the door to open.

Inside, the cell is warmer than the corridor outside it. The room is spacious enough for a small family like Gared’s. There are three featherbeds, one of which is occupied by Alise, his mother, and a small hearth with burning logs inside.

“Y’Grace.” Alise’s daughter rises from her mother’s sickbed and curtsies. She folds her hands before her and her eyes widen as soon as Ser Brienne enters the room as well, and Sansa does not miss it.

“Don’t worry about Ser Brienne, she is trustworthy. What is your name?”

“Name’s Roselyn, Your Grace.”

“Roselyn?” Sansa smiles. “It’s such a pretty name.”

“Thank you.” The girl returns the smile. Then, she glances down at the battered dress she had worn when she had come to court and her thick dark eyebrows knit together on her forehead. “If I knew you’d come, Y’Grace I would’ve changed into something nice.”

“Don’t trouble yourself with that, Roselyn.” Sansa gazes past her and takes careful steps towards her mother. “Alise,” she says softly, and the woman manages to pull a weak smile, “how do you feel?”

“Been better.” The woman’s face twists in pain when she attempts to lift herself up. “My legs hurt worse than the seven hells, and my arms are no better. My arms…I used to make butter for days and nights, Y’Grace, churning the cream and the milk…and now look at me.”

“Who stitched your wounds?” Sansa asks nodding at the numerous fresh scars across her face.

“My Rosie. She’s good with needles, she is.”

“I see,” Sansa says. “You’ll recover soon. Maester Wolkan will attend to you at once.”

“A maester?” Roselyn asks, and Sansa turns around. “We—how can we repay you, Y’Grace?”

She smiles. “You don’t need to, as long as you’re safe.”

“Thank you, my Queen. Thank you.” Roselyn’s eyes glisten with tears again, but Sansa places a gentle hand on hers.

“Promise me you won’t weep again, Roselyn.”

The girl stifles a sob and laughs. “I promise.”

“She’s lying, Y’Grace,” Alise says from her featherbed. “She’s very sensitive, my Rosie. She cries loads.”

“Mother!”

“Don’t look at me like I’m lying! You used to cry loads when you were little. Only sewing and not much else helped you.” Alise looks at Sansa. “My baby makes fancy dresses, Y’Grace. Like those the ladies wear.”

“Oh,” Sansa says. “_That_’s what you meant when you said she’s good with needles.” She glances at Roselyn, who is nervously picking at her nails. “Would you like to sew something for me sometime, Roselyn?”

“I-I, I’d love to, Y’Grace.” Roselyn’s cheeks turn a soft pink. “But…I don’t have any rich fabrics with me. Not any worthy of you.”

“I have plenty I don’t use and some that belonged to my lady mother as well. You can start there.” Sansa studies Roselyn’s soft features and an idea forms in her mind. “Would you also consider becoming my handmaiden?”

Roselyn stutters and before she can reply, her mother utters, “Yes!” with all the strength she can gather. “She’d love to!”

“Mother, are you sure? Who’ll take care of you?”

“The…the Maester. And your little brother. And I’ll feel better soon, you’ll see.”

“Gared is too little, and he needs to be with the other children, like now.” Roselyn sighs and turns to Sansa. “Forgive me, Y’Grace, but I can’t. My mother needs me.”

“You can stay with me at night, Rosie. That’s enough.” Alise says.

“I have other handmaidens, so you don’t need to stay with me all the time. You could be with me for a few hours a day.”

Roselyn reflects on it for a moment, her lips pursed and her gaze flitting between her mother and Sansa. “Well, aye, I can.”

“It’s settled then. Come to my solar tomorrow morning and I’ll get you something new to wear, all right?”

Roselyn’s hazel eyes shine like gold as a smile blooms on her freckled face. “Thank you, Y’Grace. I’ll come for sure.”

Sansa smiles at the two women and takes her leave, Lord Royce and Ser Brienne behind her.

Once outside the cell, Brienne leans closer to her ear. “That was very generous of you, Your Grace.”

Sansa smiles. “She seems to be a lovely girl. Perhaps spending time at court with the other girls will help lift her spirits.”

“I’m sure it will.”

— 

Is it true that he killed the Dragon Queen for her?

Sansa knows that cannot be the only reason. After all, she would not think much of Jon if he only cared about his own family. After the destruction of King’s Landing, it was clear that the Dragon Queen would not have stopped there. She would have sacked other holdfasts too, Winterfell included. She would have set lands aflame, burning soldiers and commoners alike. Farmers, fishermen, mothers and babes would have all perished at her feet, engulfed by her dragon’s wrath. By _her_ wrath. Maester Luwin used to say that a true Targaryen was short-tempered and unforgiving when crossed. Daenerys Targaryen certainly had been.

But is Jon like that?

No, he is not. As she sits alone in her solar, Gared’s flowers in a vase near Jon’s letter, Sansa shakes her head and knows the truth in her heart. Jon may have been born a Targaryen, but he is nothing like his aunt. He only shared blood with her.

That is why he stopped her.

But is it true that he also made that terrible decision for Sansa’s sake? For Sansa’s _life_?

_Is one letter enough for both of you?_ As her sister’s words echo in her mind, she takes some blank parchment. She stares at it and remembers her dream. It still feels as vivid and as real as the parchment before her. What she feels is something she had not thought herself capable of harbouring; a feeling so intense yet pleasant that she almost wonders if it is a trick her body is playing on her. Is this something a lady, a _queen_ is supposed to feel? Is this something _she_ is supposed to feel? After all that has happened…

She shakes her head. She does not want any haunting memory to come back now.

What will he think when, _if_ another of her letters flies to Castle Black? What emotions will traverse his heart as he rips the direwolf seal again? Will he be happy to know that she would love to hear more from him?

_I guess I’ll never know unless I write him again._

Sansa sighs and picks up the quill. She dips it in the inkwell and, careful not to stain the immaculate parchment, she writes his name. _Dear Jon_, as usual. Then, she pours her thoughts onto the page, she lets them run free, unrestrained. Her mind wanders to the fool, to his song, and even though her fist clenches she knows she must avoid that topic, along with the jealousy that lurks in the shadows. And, more importantly, she must avoid the reason she woke all sweaty this morning. She cannot allow this truth to escape her heart, becoming ink on parchment. She will keep that little taste of happiness for herself alone.

Sansa’s fingers curl in a fist, nails digging in her skin as she remembers how she had tried to warn him about the true nature of the Dragon Queen. She had warned him about her, hadn't she? Yes, she had. And what did he do? He did not listen to her. As she told Brienne the day before, her tongue made braver by the wine, _he_ made those choices. _He_ chose to trust the wrong woman.

Should she still be angry about that? She does not know. All she knows is that she is tired of feeling her stomach tied to a knot all the time, and the only remedy to this torture is writing him. And as she watches the quill dance on the parchment, she is not so sure if she can keep biting her own tongue any longer.

_It didn’t have to come to this, Jon_, she thinks._ And it’s your fault it did._

**Jon**

Castle Black’s stables are quiet and cold. Little snowflakes leak through the holes in the roof and melt on Jon’s lashes like tears from the sky. He brushes them away and sucks in a sharp breath when he strokes his bruised eye too hard. He always forgets. He sighs and pours some hay for the horses. One of them, with a ginger mane, sniffs it and neighs happily, getting a smile out of him.

The peace and quiet are broken by an unfamiliar voice. “Lord Snow.”

Jon’s hand instinctively reaches for Longclaw’s hilt. His body stiffens as he slowly turns around, and his lips part in disbelief when he sees who is standing in front of him.

_The lad who hit me._

“What do you want?”

The boy lowers his gaze and his cheeks warm. “Can we talk?”

Jon’s hand abandons Longclaw’s hilt and his body turns to the horses again. “_Talk_? You’re not going to hit me again?”

The lad sighs. “No, m’lord. I’m…I’m sorry ‘bout that. Very sorry.”

“All right, you’re forgiven. You can go now.”

“_No_,” he says, stepping closer, and Jon tenses up again. “I wanted to ask you if…you would train me.”

Jon slowly turns his head towards him. “_Train you_?”

The lad nods. “I’m sorry for hitting you and insulting you. Will you train me?” The boy folds his hands before him and fidgets with them in a way that makes him look like a child, and Jon realises that he _is_ a child.

Jon sighs. “I’m a steward, this is what I do,” he says, caressing a horse’s head. “I can’t train you.”

“The Lord Commander said you can. You’re the best with a sword here, he said.”

“The Lord Commander said that?”

The lad nods again.

“All right. I guess I don’t have any other choice, do I?” Jon says in a lighter tone, and the boy’s lips quirk in a smile.

“Do you forgive me, Lord Snow?”

Jon steps closer and pats the boy’s shoulder. “Aye, I do. How should I call you?”

“Brynden.”

“_Brynden_. My brother is called Brandon.”

The boy’s eyes widen. “As in…King Bran the Rebuilder?”

Jon smiles and nods. _The king I could never bring myself to be_. “Brynden, will some ale help you explain to me why you were so angry?”

The lad grins, flashing his crooked teeth, and Jon leads the way towards the common hall, his boots softly crunching over the snow that covers the courtyard like a blanket.

With some ale in his stomach and the hearth near him burning, Jon feels the cold of the Wall thawing from his bones. The lad looks calm too, and now that Jon can observe him better, he notices that the black eye that other boy had given him is starting to become yellow, just like his own.

“So, why did you two fight?”

Brynden shakes his head. “We come from the same village. We always argued even then.”

Jon sips on some ale. “I see. Are you from the North?”

“Aye.” Brynden’s eyes narrow. “Your…your eye is getting better, isn’t it?”

“With due time, it will.”

Brynden taps his fingers on his tankard. “That happens all the time. I mean, my anger. I get angry all the time.”

Jon leans back in his chair. “Why?”

The lad shrugs. “I miss my house, my family. My mother and sister and…a maid.”

“You left a girl behind?”

Brynden sighs and nods, his black hair damp from the melted snow. “I left her, I did. What could I do? Couldn’t bring her with me, could I?”

“Of course not.” Jon drinks his last sip of ale. “Why did you join the Night’s Watch?”

Brynden’s parched lips take a bitter shape. “Stole a couple hens from a neighbour. I should’ve been more careful.”

“Or, perhaps, you shouldn’t have stolen them.”

Brynden’s scoffs. “You have to steal when your family is starving. And now they’re alone, without me.” His brown eyes study Jon’s face and he feels as if the boy is reading right through him. “Did you ever steal anything, Lord Snow?”

Jon’s mouth opens, but words remain trapped inside it. “I did worse things than that.”

“Life’s not easy, is it?”

Jon chuckles and shakes his head. “How old are you, Brynden?”

“Six and ten.”

_A bit older than me when I took the black_. “I see.”

“Lord Snow, for you.” Little Erik appears from behind and hands Jon a letter. _Another_.

He takes it from the child’s hand. “Thank you, Erik.”

The boy smiles and leaves. Jon holds the parchment in his hands, slowly stroking it with his thumb for a moment, and prepares to open it when Brynden interrupts him.

“Who sent that?”

Jon lifts his gaze to meets Brynden’s. _He didn’t recognise the seal?_ “A friend. You know, I left someone in the North, too.”

“Is it a woman?”

Jon clenches his jaw and prays that his eyes do not reveal too much. “You’re too nosy, Brynden. Don’t try my patience.”

The boy leans closer. “So it _is_ a woman. A maid. Is she fair? What’s she like?”

“Enough, Brynden,” he says, glaring at him, and the lad lowers his gaze like Ghost does when Jon scolds him.

“Sorry,” Brynden mutters, his lips wet from the ale. “You can read that. I swear I won’t bother you no more.”

Jon shoots him one last look and sighs. He glances at the letter and tears the Stark seal with bated breath. He can feel his own blood rush to his ears as his eyes run across the black ink that connects him and Sansa once again.

> _Dear Jon,_
> 
> _thank you for your kind words. I know very well that yours is not just empty flattering._
> 
> _In your last letter, you said that I am the monarch you could never be, the one the northern lords should have chosen when they had the chance to do so. Jon, it hurts my heart to tell you this, but they did. They did choose me. They asked me to become queen after you left for Dragonstone. Even Baelish tried to manipulate me into reclaiming the throne by birthright. But I refused, not only because I did not want to betray you, but also because I believed, I firmly believed that you were the king the North needed. The king the North deserved. I deemed you a Stark, and I deemed you a king, and I was ready to defend you from those who might conspire against you._
> 
> _Sometimes I think that we could have avoided much misunderstanding if we had spoken. I wish I did not have to say this, Jon, but if only you had opened up to me, I would have done my best to help you make the right decisions. It did not have to happen in front of the whole court. We could have talked before a burning hearth, planning our next moves, trying to make the best decisions for our family and for our kingdom. Because the North is still part of you, Jon, don’t you ever forget that._
> 
> _I tried to warn you, Jon. I really tried. Perhaps I should have insisted more. It did not have to come to this, but sadly, it did. And the reasons for it are the choices you made on your own. No king or queen can ever rule alone. I wish I could have helped you be the best king you could ever be, but it is too late now._
> 
> _I do not expect a response, for no words can change the past. Stay safe._
> 
> _Sansa Stark, Queen in the North_

A blow crashes into Jon’s gut. He swallows down the lump that forms in his throat and hopes that his face does not betray him. Sansa is right. Sansa is right. Why did he even try to carry that burden all on his own? Were his shoulders strong enough for the Night King, Daenerys, all of that? No, they were not. He thought that by leaving Sansa out of it he could have protected her from Daenerys, but he never stopped to consider her opinion. He never took a moment to acknowledge her thoughts, her feelings. She must have felt ignored, he knows. He let her down, it is undeniable. Because it is disappointment he reads in her letter. It is disappointment her words scream at him. And he can almost feel her resentful gaze on him, even from miles away. _How could I be so stupid? How could I be so blind?_

“Is it bad?” Brynden’s voice seems distant and faint, but it does not fail to wake Jon from the maelstrom.

He glances up. “What?”

“The letter. You don’t look fine, Lord Snow.”

_How could I?_ “You promised you wouldn’t bother me again, Brynden.”

“Well, I’m sorry but…you look upset.”

_I wish I were merely upset_. “This letter is from someone I let down,” he sighs, setting the letter on the table near him. “Someone I should’ve protected and ended up betraying.”

“You should tell that person that you’re sorry.”

Jon lets out a dry chuckle. “It’s too late for words, I fear.” _Sansa said it herself; no words can change the past._

“You should start somewhere,” Brynden insists.

Jon folds the letter and tucks it under his belt, then he rises. “Are you done with your ale? We should start training now.”

Brynden swallows down one last sip and sweeps some ale away from his scanty moustache. “I’m ready.”

Jon nods and leads the way to the courtyard. Snow has stopped drifting down from the sky, but the air around them still feels crisp and sharp as a blade. With wooden weapons in hand, Jon and Brynden stand a few feet away from each other.

“We’ll start with these,” Jon says, “before moving onto real swords. Use your dominant hand and adjust the grip on the hilt.”

Brynden nods and does as Jon commands. He passes the wooden sword from his right to his left hand and flexes his fingers around its hilt, brow furrowed in concentration. His brown eyes set on Jon, but they widen when a huge shadow as white as snow stalks towards them.

“You don’t have to worry about him,” Jon says, nodding at Ghost, “as long as you don’t hit me again.”

Brynden gulps and stutters an _aye_. Then, Jon runs a hand through Ghost’s thick fur and whispers to him that he is safe now, that Brynden will not attack him.

Until Jon instructs him to do so, of course.

After Ghost pads away from them and sits on his paws, Jon clears his throat and assumes his fighting position.

“One foot in front of the other,” he says, “like this.” After studying his movements with narrowed eyes, Brynden imitates him.

Then, the training begins. Brynden’s blows are clumsy and weak, and Jon moves slowly in order to allow him to feel more at ease. Around them, other brothers of the Night’s Watch train as well. The thud of wood against wood clashes with the clink of metal, and as Jon’s body moves almost mechanically, his mind flies fast as a raven to Winterfell.

_Sansa_. He had not known about the northern lords regretting their decision of making him King until he read her letter. She never told him. She might have deemed it irrelevant. After all, he had already bent the knee, so he was not King anymore.

Sansa could have taken his throne, if she had wanted. She was the only Stark in Winterfell, and her claim was stronger than his, yet…yet, she did not. She chose to protect him, instead.

And when it was his turn to protect her, what did he choose?

Brynden’s stick flies high and almost hits Jon, but he is quick enough to parry. He advances and the boy almost loses his balance, but his feet do not betray him and in the blink of an eye he tries to hit Jon again. Up, down, left, right, their wooden swords clash with each other as hard as the thoughts inside Jon’s skull.

He did not even know about Baelish. He suspected something, but once he found out that his siblings had taken care of him, he was relieved, and thought that there was nothing else to say.

_Why is it always like this for me?_ Jon wonders. Why is it always difficult to talk, to open up, to ask for help when help is all he needs? Why does it always seem like an impossible task to reach out to the ones he loves? To the ones he should protect?

_If you had opened up to me…you wouldn’t have been exiled_, that is what she meant, isn’t it?

Jon blocks another of Brynden’s blows as he curses himself for not talking to Sansa. He should have talked to her. He should have consulted her beforehand…but could he have protected her from Daenerys at the same time? Perhaps he should have tried. But even remotely considering the chance that Sansa could have ended up being hurt, or worse, _dead_—

Jon finds himself on the cold ground. He glances up and blinks at Brynden who is looking down at him with a mortified look on his face. Before he can even figure out how he fell, the lad holds out a hand to him, which Jon takes.

“Sorry,” Brynden mutters, eyes downcast, no trace of the arrogant boy who dared insult and hit him.

“Don’t apologise,” Jon says, rubbing his sore back. “You took advantage of my distraction. That means you’re learning.”

A grin spreads on Brynden round face, but then it vanishes as fast as it had appeared. “We can stop, Lord Snow. If you want.”

“Why would I?”

Brynden points at something on the ground, near Jon’s foot. _The letter_. He bends down and swiftly picks it up. He should put it away, securing it before it falls again, but his fingers are reluctant to let it go.

“You’re upset,” Brynden says. “If you’re sorry, say it. Write it. I would write a letter to my love if I could.”

Jon chuckles. “It’s not…it’s not like that.”

“Then how is it?”

“I told you. I made mistakes and now I’m paying the price,” he sighs, his jaw clenched. “Considering what I did, I deem myself lucky to be alive.”

Brynden tilts his head like a confused dog and studies his face. “I heard you were a king once. Is that true?”

Jon nods. “Aye, I was. But then I gave up my crown because I thought it was best for my people. And then I became what…what you called me.” _I did terrible things…when there was nothing left to do._

Jon squints at the sky and a snowflake lands on his forehead, soft as a lover’s kiss, and it melts and runs down his face like a tear. He scoffs at the irony of the situation; he is opening up about things he has locked within him for ages to a boy who gave him a black eye.

He unfolds the letter with his free hand. _If only you had opened up to me…_

_The North is still part of you_. Sansa, oh Sansa. Always worried about him, about making sure that he knows he has not been forgotten. That is certainly more than he deserves.

“We’ll continue tomorrow, Brynden.”

Jon hands him his wooden sword and the boy takes it. Then, he watches it head for the armoury with both weapons.

He glances up at the sky. Another snowflake lands and melts on him. _No words can change the past, but perhaps it’s not too late to fix the future._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying this fic and would like to read more, let me know! I write better if I know that someone is actually interested in reading my stuff :) thank you in advance! <3


	4. Letter four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy October! I posted chapter 1 exactly one month ago, and here is chapter 4. Gosh, we're almost halfway!  
Note: the way I explain Jon’s motives for what he did in s7-s8 is just my personal interpretation. I tried to make the best of what canon gave us (since they, themselves, never really explained why Jon did what he did).  
P.S.: I'm planning a Dark!Jon x Alayne fic. The prologue is almost ready. I'm still mapping out a plot for the fic, but I already have many exciting ideas in mind!

**Jon**

“It’s good to see that your eye is improving,” Sam says with a smile and Jon heaves a relieved sigh.  
****

“So, that means that I no longer need to use that disgusting mush you gave me?”

“Jon, it’s not like I had you _eat_ it.”

“I thank the Gods for that,” Jon groans. “The smell was more than enough.”

Sam’s eyes linger on Jon’s face, and he suddenly feels his friend’s gaze piercing right through him. “Have you slept well, though? You look tired.”

“I am,” Jon sighs, rubbing his eyes. “The Lord Commander asked me to cover for the brothers rebuilding the Wall. I barely touched my featherbed these past few days, let alone lying down to rest.”

“I see,” Sam says. “What happened to the boy that hit you, anyway?”

“He didn’t have it easy with the Lord Commander. He and the other lad have to clean the pigsties as punishment.”

“Well, I bet that’ll teach him a lesson,” Sam says.

“He’s just a child. He comes from the same village as the other boy. They used to fight all the time, even back then.”

Sam lifts a questioning eyebrow. “And how do you know all that?”

“He told me,” Jon replies, leaning back in his chair. “He came to me the next day to apologise.”

“_Apologise_?” Sam looks genuinely surprised. “That’s quite an unexpected turn of events.”

“Aye,” Jon says. “He also asked me to train him.”

Sam’s little brown eyes widen even more. “And you accepted?”

“What could I do?” Jon asks, the black furs draped over his shoulders softly rustling as he shrugs. “The Lord Commander sent him to me. He’s never held a real sword in his life, but he learns fast.”

Silence falls between them, and as Sam pours himself a cup of water, Jon prepares himself for the inevitable question he knows is coming.

Sam clears his throat and throws a nervous glance at Jon. _Here we are_, he thinks. “So, the other day you told me that Her Grace wrote you again.”

“Aye,” Jon says, “she did. Why do you ask?”

“I remember how nervous you were when she wrote you the first time.”

“I wasn’t nervous,” Jon spits.

Sam’s brows quirk up. “_Jon_,” he says, and it sounds a reproach, “you can’t fool me. Just admit it.”

“All right,” Jon declares, “I was. Happy now?”

“I’m happy if _you_ are.” Sam leans closer to Jon and lowering his voice says, “I know how much you care about her.”

“If only that mattered…”

“I’m sorry,” Sam says. “What did she write you now?”

Jon exhales loudly and for a brief moment it feels as if he had been hit in the face again. “Nothing but the truth,” he says. “And, I must admit…it wasn’t easy to read this one.”

“Oh.” The corners of Sam’s plump mouth turn downwards. “Have you replied to her yet?”

Jon’s instincts urge him to stand up and leave, or perhaps to lie, but it is Sam who is sitting near him. It is Sam who is staring at him, his best friend. Jon sighs and as he exhales he lets his guard down for once. “I can’t.”

“What do you mean you _can’t_?”

“After I read her letter, I was startled,” he admits. “She had the courage to tell things for what they are, one of the many skills that I lack. After a while I calmed down and I felt ready to reply, but now…now it feels as if I went back to square one.”

“You mean…before you wrote her your first letter?”

Jon nods.

“Well, Jon, perhaps you’ve got so many things to say that you don’t know where to begin. But you can’t ignore her.”

“Of course not, Sam,” Jon says, shaking his head. Then, he takes a moment to reflect on Sam’s words. “Perhaps you’re right. I don’t know where to begin.”

“Start by apologising.”

“I’ve already done that.”

“Well, do it again. This way she’ll realise how truly sorry you are.”

“You’re right,” Jon admits. _Sansa surely deserves more than just one apology._

Sam smiles and before Jon can reply two strong hands grab his shoulders, giving them a firm squeeze. “My little crow!”

“Tormund,” Jon says, standing up to hug his friend, “what are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to your Lord Commander. I need men.”

“Men? Of the Night’s Watch?” Sam asks.

“Aye,” Tormund replies, stroking his red beard. “Some o’ my men went out to hunt and never came back. I need some more to go out and look for them.”

“It’s not…” Jon lowers his voice. “The Night King is destroyed.”

“Aye, and his bloody army o’ corpses too,” Tormund spits. “It’s not just dead fuckers that kill men. It may be shadowcats, bears, or other tribes we don’t know.”

“Do you think that there might be more people of the freefolk?” Sam asks, intrigued.

“Seems unlikely to me, but who knows what lives in the Haunted Forest.”

“I’m sure that if you ask the Lord Commander he’ll give you the men you need,” Jon says. “I don’t think you can take many with you, though. Most are still busy fixing the breach in the Wall.”

“Har, I still remember when that bloody frozen dragon burned it down,” Tormund says, his blue eyes lost in thought. “I’m glad I’m still here to tell it, though.”

“Aye,” Jon says, the memory of himself almost drowning in a frozen lake still too vivid in his mind.

“Anyway, your wolf would be o’ great use. He could help us nose those men out.”

“Ghost?” Jon asks, and as if he had commanded him to come to his side, the direwolf wakes from his slumber by the fire and trots towards Jon.

Tormund nods. “It won’t take long, I hope.”

“All right,” Jon says, his gaze meeting Ghost’s. “He’ll go with you. But if anything happens to him, I’ll kill you with my bare hands.”

Tormund lets out a hearty laugh. “Fear not, Jon Snow. You already entrusted me with taking care o’ him once.”

“True,” Jon says, petting Ghost on his head. “When will you leave?”

“As soon as I get enough men and horses. I hope you crows are still as brave as when I met you.”

“I don’t think anything will be capable of scaring them more than the Army of the Dead already did.”

Tormund nods and runs his rough fingers through Ghost’s fur. “Don’t worry, my wild friend. You’ll be back with your little master before he can even complain that he misses you.”

_I already miss him_, Jon thinks as he watches Ghost dutifully pad beside Tormund out of the common hall and towards the Lord Commander’s tower.

Jon rises from his seat and glances out of one of the small windows. “I should go. Brynden must already be out there looking for me.”

“All right,” Sam says, rising as well. “I’ll go, too.”

“When are you going back to the capital?”

“We have a few more days left,” Sam replies. He opens his mouth to speak again, but a wide grin spreads on his face as he looks past Jon.

He turns around and sees Gilly approaching them with little Sam at her side and their baby girl in her arms.

“Oh, there you are,” she says to Sam, and the babe in Gilly’s arms squeals and wiggles her little arms in Jon’s direction.

“Melessa wants you to hold her,” Sam tells Jon, and for a beat he thinks he is talking to someone else.

He shakes his head. “I could never. I don’t want to hurt her.”

“Oh, Jon, come on,” Sam says as little Sam tugs at his hand for attention. “It’s not like you’ll break her.”

Gilly gives Jon a tentative look and proffers him the babe, but Jon decides to simply smile at her. The little girl, in response, stares at him with her piercing blue eyes that remind him so much of—

“Anyway, it’s time we go now,” Sam declares, pulling Jon from his heartbreaking musings. “The children need to eat.”

“Of course,” Jon says, reaching out to pat little Sam on his blonde head. “I’ll see all of you around.”

Sam and Gilly smile and little Sam sticks out his tongue at Jon as they leave. Baby Melessa, instead, won’t take her eyes off him and gazes at him from her mother’s shoulder, her dark curls framing her porcelain face perfectly.

_What would it be like to hold my own little one in my arms?_

Jon rubs his forehead as though his fingers could shake such a silly thought away from his mind and reflects on Sam’s words. How does his best friend always manage to give him the advice he needs?

_Perhaps I already know what to say…and I’m just scared to say it_, he thinks to himself.

He strides out of the common hall and yells at Brynden, who is already swinging his wooden sword, thathe will reach him in a minute.

As he crosses Castle Black’s courtyard, Tormund waves at him from the gates before leaving. Jon waves back and then his eyes meet Ghost’s. The direwolf does not tear them off him until he disappears down the stairs that lead to his cell.

He does not even care about brushing off the snow that has gathered on his cloak. Instead, he pulls out of a drawer some parchment he had taken from the library and sits at his small desk. He dips the quill in the inkwell and writes her name. Then, he battles with himself, struggling to find the words.

That is the reason he avoided answering her for days. That is the reason he buried himself in even some more work than what was required, asking the Lord Commander to assign him even more daily tasks. He feels split into two; one part of him wants to tell her everything, finally breaking the wall of ice between them, but the other one constantly restrains him, holds him back. And he hates himself for it. He hates himself because if only he could get rid of this rotten part of himself, perhaps he could tell her what led him to making his terrible decisions.

Sansa had been brutally honest in her last letter, and he knows how much it must have cost her. _She needs to know the truth_, he reminds himself, _the whole truth_. Silence and half-truths will not solve their issues. They never have. They will only complicate them further, and neither of them needs that now.

He squeezes his eyes shut and for a moment he can still see her, the candles around them bringing a warm hue to her pale cheeks. _Did you bend the knee to save the North or because you love her?_

Jon’s hand starts swaying over the parchment. The muscles of his whole body are stiff and hard as steel, just like when he prepares for battle, for it is a battle he is fighting, only without armour. It is not Longclaw he is swinging, but a quill, something that still does not quite feel right in his clumsy hand. Yet he persists, he stands his ground, he does not allow his innumerable fears to hold him back from telling her the truth. It is hard, tiring, excruciating. He is not used to speaking openly about his feelings, fears or insecurities, and especially where Sansa is concerned, he withdraws into himself even more. But after everything he has been through, _they _have been through, he owes it to her. He cannot fix the mistakes of the past, so the least he can do is be honest with her.

Why did he bend the knee to a Southron invader? Why didn’t he consult Sansa before doing so? Why did he leave her out of it _after_?

Her stinging, half-whispered question still lingers in his mind. _Did you bend the knee to save the North or because you love her?_

Once the letter is finished, he seals it with some wax and reaches the rookery, where the ravens start shrieking as soon as he enters. He tightly binds the letter to a raven’s leg and follows the raven as it heads south, where Winterfell sits with its swaying direwolves atop its ancient towers.

_Will it be enough, though? _Jon cannot help but wonder, Sansa’s unforgiving eyes still carved in the stone of his memory.

**Sansa**

“That is all for today.” Sansa rises from the wooden throne carved with direwolf heads and everybody in the Great Hall rises as well. As the petitioners of the day take their leave, she strides towards the exit door, Ser Brienne faithfully by her side.

“What are your next plans, Your Grace?”

“Oh, some paperwork awaits me. But first I shall talk with Roselyn. Could you bring her to my solar, Ser Brienne?”

The knight smiles. “I will at once, Your Grace.” Then, she lifts an eyebrow. “Are you sure, though, that it wouldn’t be more appropriate to send Lord Royce?”

Sansa frowns. “How would sending_ you_ be inappropriate?”

“What I mean is you must’ve noticed that the girl wasn’t at ease with me being in the same room as her.”

“Oh, _that_,” Sansa says as they round the corner the leads to her solar. “I must admit that she looked quite frightened at first. But I told her not to worry. After all, she’s not used to seeing women in armour.”

Ser Brienne chuckles, eyes downcast. “I know I can be quite…intimidating.”

“You’re not _intimidating_,” Sansa says, placing a hand on Brienne’s gauntlet. “You’re _majestic_. And you must always keep your chin high.”

Something sparkles in Brienne’s sapphire eyes, something that looks very much like pride. “I do, Your Grace,” she says, her large lips quirking in a smile. Her hand moves to the hilt of her sword. “I can be intimidating though, if need be.”

“Don’t worry, Brienne, I’m safe within these walls,” Sansa sighs, turning to open the door to her solar. “So, will you escort Roselyn here for me?”

Brienne bows her blonde head. “At once, Your Grace.”

Once Brienne is gone, Sansa enters her solar. She closes the heavy door behind her and walks towards her desk. She lifts her crown from her head and secures it inside a jewellery box, its shiny stones catching the morning light that creeps through the windows. She shuts the box with a loud thud that sweeps a sheet of parchment off the desk. As it floats to the ground like an autumn leaf fallen from a branch, Sansa recognises what it is. Jon’s first and only letter. She picks it up with a sigh and puts the little vase with the wild flowers Gared gave her on it lest it fall again.

It has been days since she wrote him again, but he still has not sent back a reply. Sansa knows that he is not free to do as he pleases at the Wall, and with so many builders incessantly working to repair the breach in it the stewards’ duties double, but she cannot help but feel her stomach churn in anticipation as she waits for a response.

She concluded her letter by writing that he does not need to reply, but Jon is not going to take that literally, is he?

Someone knocks on the door. Sansa sits herself and calls to come in, and a smile pulls at her lips when her eyes meet Roselyn’s.

“Y’Grace,” Roselyn says, bobbing in a clumsy curtsy before her.

“Hello, Roselyn.” She then looks at Brienne and nods at her to go. “Please, sit,” Sansa says, gesturing at the chair on the opposite side of her desk.

The girl does so and then a crease of worry snakes across her forehead. “I-I’m sorry for not coming earlier, Y’Grace. But my brother is a lot of work and with my mother, w-well…”

“Incapacitated?”

“Aye,” the girl says, nodding, her eyes still on her lap. “I had to look after him. Sorry I left you waiting for days.”

“Oh,” Sansa scoffs, “you did nothing of the sort. I know it’s not easy to accustom yourself to living in a new place. I had to leave my home too when I was a few years younger than you.”

Roselyn’s wide hazel eyes flicker up to Sansa. “You’re not angry, Y’Grace?”

“Of course not,” Sansa says, smiling as she sees the girl’s features soften with relief and her cheeks regain colour. “How is your family fairing?”

Roselyn clears her throat. “My mother still can’t walk well but she’s starting to feel better, she is. And my brother likes it here. He loves being outside, running and playing with the other children.”

“I’m happy to hear that,” Sansa replies. “These flowers,” she says, pointing at the little bouquet on her desk, “Gared gifted them to me. He’s a very sweet boy.”

“Oh, he is.” Roselyn blushes. “He’s wild, but he’s good.”

“Tell me about _wild_,” Sansa says, clasping her hands on her lap. “My sister was a lot of work too when she was younger. But I love her and I wouldn’t want to have any other as my sister.”

“Oh, Y’Grace. I love Gared loads too.”

The two share a smile and as Sansa notices the tension leaving Roselyn’s shoulders, she knows she can dare ask some more personal questions. “Tell me more about you, Roselyn. How old are you?”

“Almost six and ten.” The girl starts fidgeting with the crumpled hem of her sleeve. “Well, there ain’t nothing else to say, really. My father died in the war, the Great War, leaving us to ourselves.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your father,” Sansa says. As she pronounces these words, her mind wanders to how dreadfully still Theon’s lifeless body was moments before the pyre was lit. She thinks of how icy his skin looked, of how—

She swallows and steels herself lest her voice quaver. “We all have lost much to the Great War. But we’re lucky we’re alive.”

Roselyn blinks some tears away. “Aye, Y’Grace. We are.”

“What about you, Roselyn? Your mother mentioned you love sewing.”

“Oh, aye, I do.” The girl nods and her plump lips curl in a shy smile. “I make clothes with what I have.”

“Look,” Sansa says, rising from her chair and opening a cabinet behind it. “After we spoke, I looked for all the fabrics that belonged to my mother.” Sansa picks up a heavy basket and sets it on her desk, some scrolls of parchment flying around like feathers. She pulls some rolls of fabric one after one; thick wools, rich silks, soft velvets. “Look at this one,” she says, pulling out a roll of Myrish lace, “feel how delicate it is.”

Her hand trembling, Roselyn lightly brushes the intricate fabric with a finger. “It’s beautiful, Y’Grace.”

Sansa hums. “It comes from far, far away. All the way from Myr. Have you ever heard of Myr, Roselyn?”

Roselyn lowers her head, perhaps to hide her flushed cheeks. “No, Y’Grace.”

“Oh, don’t worry.” Sansa pulls out a long roll of dark blue velvet. “This one used to belong to my mother. Now that the days are getting longer and the sun shines warmer, I think it’s time I shed my winter coat—”

“Like wolves do.”

Sansa nods. “Exactly. Just like wolves do.” The hint of a smile pulls at Roselyn’s lips. “Would you like to sew a gown for me using this one?”

Roselyn’s whole face pales. “I-I, Y’Grace,” she stutters, “I don’t wanna ruin it. It’s too rich a fabric for my hands.”

“You needn’t worry,” Sansa says. “My seamstress will guide you every step of the way. I would do it myself but I fear I might not have much time in the next few days. So, what do you say?”

Roselyn glances at the window for a brief moment, probably weighing down Sansa’s proposition, and then her hazel eyes flicker back to her face. “I’d love to make you a gown, Y’Grace.”

Sansa flashes a wide smile at her. “I’m glad to hear that.” She rises, and Roselyn does as well. “Ser Brienne will escort you to your new chamber, where you’ll find a new dress. You’ll share the room with my other handmaidens. Needless to say, though, that you’re free to take care of your family whenever you want.” Sansa walks around the desk and over to Roselyn and takes her hands in hers. “I trust that you’ll suit yourself well.”

Roselyn’s thick lower lip trembles. “I will.”

“Good.” Sansa gently drops the girl’s calloused hands and accompanies her to the door. “Should you or your family need anything, don’t hesitate to come straight to me, all right?”

Roselyn nods repeatedly and pushes a fallen strand of brown hair away from her face. “Thank you, Y’Grace.”

—

The setting sun bleeds in streaks of a deep red as if it had been replaced by a huge Dornish blood orange. At her desk, Sansa lights a candle to fight the advancing dark that obscures the words and numbers written on a book of account. The rebuilding of the winter town proceeds smoothly, and every day a new house is completed, yet many others are still in ruin.

She lifts her eyes from the book and yawns. She is growing tired, after hours of doing her paperwork, but her sleepy heart picks up the pace when her eyes land on Jon’s letter.

She stares at the parchment and an odd idea blossoms in her mind like a buttercup sprouting from the ground. She rises and steps out of her solar before her common sense brings her back to her chair.

No servants roam the corridor. Arya must be outside, riding or training, and Lord Royce must sit in his office doing his paperwork. She is glad to be alone, the clicking of her soles against the stone floor the only sound to be heard. She forgets how to breathe as she rounds the corner that leads to her bedchambers and, also, someone else’s.

Jon’s.

She cannot even remember the last time she set foot into his chambers. After they had taken back Winterfell and he had given up the Lord’s chambers for her, Sansa had only once or twice visited Jon in the intimacy of his room. It had been usually for night paperwork, the first few moons after they had got their home back, for matters that required the King’s attention that could not wait till the next morning.

Since he has been sentenced to the Wall, though, the door to his chambers has remained shut, for Sansa had given specific order that his belongings not be displaced by anyone.

She stops before the tall door, her shaking hand reaching for the doorknob. She slowly pushes it open with bated breath, as if she still is that young lady who had to avoid her bastard brother’s room at all costs, and when she enters, an unexpected warmth thaws all the ice that surrounds her heart like a prison.

She silently closes the door behind her and turns around. Her skirts rustle softly behind her as she moves, her feet light as feathers on the hard stones of the floor. Everything is still, untouched, quiet. Everything lies as if a windstorm had passed, sweeping away all traces of human life. She looks about like a disoriented child, like a young girl who ignores what her next moves should be. She hears a soft rustle again, like that of a bubbling stream, but this time her gown is not to blame.

She steps closer to one of the granite walls and lays a hand on it. The stone is warm and vibrant, almost pulsating, and she remembers why Jon chose this room for himself after he had given up the Lord’s chambers for her. Since it is one of the smallest rooms of the castle, it has always been the warmest, for the waters of the hot springs flow faster within its walls. His choice says more about Jon than anything else. He did not need much space, he was not interested in opulence or lavishness like most kings. Shelter and warmth were all he longed for, a humble fire to keep him warm after years spent amidst the unforgiving snows of the Wall.

And she knows he is not that different from her in this aspect.

Shelter and warmth are also what Sansa wants, what Sansa _needs_. A comforting cloak around her shoulders and familiar smiles to keep her safe, to remind her that the nightmares that used to haunt her are long gone, swept away by the winds of spring.

She looks around her. His bed is intact, the furs draped over it covered in a thin layer of dust. His desk is empty, save for a few books of account and some maps of the North from the time when he was still King. She takes careful steps, her legs quivering as though the floor were to crumble at any moment from beneath her. She brushes the dark wood of his armoire and catches her breath. Dust escapes from inside it as she pulls one of the shutters open, and the red sunset that filters through the small windows illuminates what is in front of her.

All Jon’s old clothes are still here. His leather jerkins, his wool doublets, his chestplate engraved with direwolf heads. His breeches, his tunics, and even some pieces Sansa recognises as what must be his smallclothes, and a quick glance is enough to make her avert her eyes in shame. She knows all too well she should not be looking through his things, invading his personal space, but it is the only way she can pretend he is still here, close to her. By softly running her fingers through the fabrics that used to enfold his body, it feels as if she is touching him and clinging onto him.

She pulls the other heavy shutter open and a soft gasp escapes from her lips when her eyes land on something that causes her heart to race.

Her hands flies from her side up to his cloak, and as she gently strokes its golden furs and leather straps, her mind takes her back to that day in the shadow of Castle Black, when Jon’s eyes gleamed in surprise at the sight of her gift to him. If she wanted to, she could still paint it all from memory; the way Jon’s typical frown softened in surprise, the way his heart-shaped lips quirked up in gratitude. She remembers how his grey eyes sparkled like the melted snowflakes trapped between his lashes.

She clenches her fingers around a handful of furs, but releases it when her mind takes her to a darker place where Jon is in love with another woman. No, she will not allow such an intrusion.

She shakes the thought away from her mind. Her hands become even more courageous when she lays them upon one of his tunics and brings it closer to her face. She noses the soft, cream fabric and breathes in the scent of him, letting it flow through her lungs and straight to her heart. She closes her eyes and for a moment she swears she can feel his large hands around her, wrapping her firmly in an embrace that never ends.

But reality knocks at her heart’s door and sinks in when her eyes fly open and she is still alone in his room, no trace of him but his clothes and his scent that fades away ever so quickly.

She heaves a shuddering sigh and makes to lay down the tunic, when her eyes catch something. A single, black hair. She blinks and frowns, wondering if her eyes are playing a trick on her, but the hair is still there, trapped by the fabric roughened by wear. She picks it with two fingers and holds it before herself against the sunlight. _A curl_, she thinks. _Jon’s curl_.

Arya would certainly raise a disapproving eyebrow at her if she saw her now, but in comparison to what she harbours in her secretive heart, what she is about to do cannot compare. She places the curl back on the fabric where she had found it and quickly balls up the tunic. Holding it tight in her hand, she gives one last glance at the empty room and leaves.

Shooting looks left and right as if she were carrying a plunder no one must see, she dashes to her bedchambers. She walks over to her own armoire to hide the stolen tunic but whips around when a voice calls her name.

“Sansa,” Arya says, “what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Sansa blurts out, the balled up tunic still in hand.

“What’s that?” Arya asks, pointing at the white ball of fabric in her grip.

“Oh, _this_.” Sansa glances down at the tunic. “It’s mine. I had it washed and I had to get it back.”

Arya lifts an eyebrow. “Couldn’t you ask a handmaiden to do that for you?”

Sansa chuckles nervously, her stomach doing twists and turns beneath her gown. “I wanted to do it personally.”

“All right,” Arya says, shrugging. Sansa is not sure if Arya even believes her, but as she shoves the crumpled tunic inside her armoire, hiding it from sight, she remembers that it is in _her_ bedchambers that she has just found her sister.

She twirls and leans her back on the armoire. “What are _you_ doing here, anyway?”

“I was looking for a shirt of mine. I thought I had lost it when I slept here, but I can’t find it anywhere.”

“Oh,” Sansa exhales. “I haven’t seen it. If I find it, I’ll tell you.”

“Thanks,” Arya replies. “Oh, by the way, while I’m here…” she says, drawing something out of the sleeve of her jerkin, “…Lord Royce said this arrived for you. He couldn’t find you anywhere, so I told him I’d give it to you when I’d see you.”

_A letter_. “Thank you, Arya.” Sansa steps closer and takes the letter from her sister’s fingers.

“So, you wrote him again.”

Sansa gives the sealed letter a quick glance and nods. “There were still some things I needed to tell him.”

Arya gives her a small smile. “Good. If that can make you feel better…”

Sansa sighs. “I hope it does.”

“All right.” Arya folds her hands behind her back and takes her leave, shutting the door behind her.

_He wrote again_. Before her legs betray her and become watery, Sansa finds the edge of her bed and sits on it. With trembling fingers she breaks the seal and unfolds the letter, letting her eyes run over his words like the first time he wrote her back.

> _Sansa,_
> 
> _thank you for taking some time to write me again._
> 
> _It is with a heavy heart that I write these words. I am not writing you in hopes of earning your forgiveness, for I do not believe I am worthy of it, but you deserve to know the truth. All of it. And I should be the one telling you._
> 
> _When I met Daenerys Targaryen, I was desperate. The Night King and his army were already marching south, and soon would have reached the realms of the living. When I met her, I did not want to bend the knee. In fact, I refused to until our expedition north of the Wall, when only her dragons managed to save us. I saw how truly powerful her dragons were. I saw them burn countless wights, and when she pledged herself to the cause of the living, I gave up my crown because I wanted to ensure that she truly stayed committed to our cause. She had already lost a dragon while saving us, and I feared that she would have fled had the situation become dangerous for her or her “children”, as she called them._
> 
> _Needless to say, I was wrong, and that is just one of the many things I rue to this day. After we arrived at Winterfell and Sam told me about his father and brother, I started to understand. She started to show her true colours, and I honestly did not know what to do next. I did not know how to remedy the storm. She had dragons, Sansa. After the Night King was defeated, she could have used them to harm us, all of us. She was constantly on the edge of breaking. When I told her of my heritage, she immediately felt threatened by my stronger claim to the Iron Throne. That is why I made you swear to secrecy. I knew what she was capable of, and I did not want to give her any more reasons to doubt our loyalty to her. I honestly do not know if she would have been able to kill me, but I knew that I had to do all I could to prevent her from hurting you, or Arya or Bran. Or the whole North._
> 
> _I am sorry I did not ask for your advice, but I was terrified of bringing you down with me. I would have died for you if it had come to that, but I knew it would not have been enough to protect you. I never would have let you bleed for the North again._
> 
> _Jon Snow_

His letter still in hand, Sansa rises from the edge of her bed and locks the door. She takes long, deep breaths to placate the emotions wracking through her body like an earthquake. As the sky outside gains a purple hue, Sansa lights a candle near her bed and throws herself on it, still fully dressed, to read Jon’s letter again.

Jon’s hands were tied, weren’t they? Once he had bent the knee, giving up his crown, he could not take his oath back. He was _terrified_. He did not use any other word. He feared that the Dragon Queen would have taken her own word back, impulsive as she proved herself to be, and that she would have left them to fight the menace to the north to take care of the one to the south.

She cannot pretend she does not understand his fears, can she?

She saw it herself in King’s Landing, among all that plotting and betraying; a man’s or woman’s given word is as frail as a thread, and as easy to unweave. What guarantee could they have had from the Dragon Queen that she would not have flown south at any moment, breaking her oath?

She sighs, trying to digest Jon’s confession, and her wide eyes trail over his final words, the ones who hit her the strongest. _I would have died for you if it had come to that, but I knew it would not have been enough to protect you. I never would have let you bleed for the North again._

_Oh, Jon._

Sansa drops the letter from her hand and gets out of bed. Three quick steps bring her to her armoire, where she had thrown Jon’s tunic in haste. She picks it up and takes it to bed with her, as if it were the only thing capable of calming her, making her feel less alone.

She reads his letter again. She reads it three, four, five times, and as she buries her nose in Jon’s tunic, lungs filled by his scent and cheeks wet by her tears, she drifts off to sleep like that, like a child in need of comfort, like a sister, a cousin, a _woman_ in love with a man who, in his own words, would have sacrificed his own life for her.

Sansa does not know what would have happened if Jon had not bent the knee, but it is enough for tonight to know that he would have died for her. Right now, that is all she needs to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love ya **SainTalia** for helping me with my chapters, as always. I'm so lucky to have you!  
***  
If you're enjoying the story so far, please consider letting me know with a comment. Your support is crucial to me! <3


	5. Letter five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5 already! I think this sets a turning point in the relationship between Jon and Sansa. Jon really starts to understand what's at stake. Our snowy boy needs to step up his game!  
***  
Tons of kisses and hugs to my amazing beta **SainTalia**! Travel safely, babe. You really are the best teammate I could find! <3

**Sansa**

When Sansa comes back from the realm of sleep, her nose is buried in something that smells _so _much like the man she loves. She blinks, rubs her eyes, groans, and lifts herself up. A pair of sharp grey eyes stare at her.

“Good morning, Your Grace. It’s good to see you’re still alive.”

Before Sansa can ask her sister what she is doing in her bedchambers, a heavy tray laden with food is thrust onto her hands, and the sweet smell of mint tea fills her lungs. Her head still dizzy from sleep, she quickly snatches Jon’s tunic and letter under the covers, but it would not surprise her if Arya had already seen her clutching them in her sleep. Her sister, though, only pays attention to the curtains that she drags open just a bit, enough for a ray of morning sun to illuminate the room.

Sansa breaks some bread and spreads some butter on it to appease her growling stomach. “Why did _you _bring me food? Shouldn’t a handmaiden have done it?”

“I told them you didn’t want to be disturbed,” Arya says, sitting on the edge of Sansa’s bed. “I figured that after retiring to your chambers without telling anyone, you wouldn’t want to _see _anyone.”

“Where is Ser Brienne? Isn’t she worried?”

“Oh, so you _know _that we were worried.” Arya’s voice is as sharp as one of the blades she usually swings ever so expertly, and Sansa cannot help but avert her eyes. Then, Arya softens her tone. “Why did you skip supper? And why did you retire so early?”

Sansa takes a sip of mint tea. “I was tired. I did paperwork all day and I didn’t feel like eating.”

“I see,” Arya says. “Did you read the letter?”

_Here it is. _“I did.”

“What did he say?”

With her free hand, Sansa rubs her throat as if to force her own voice not to abandon her. “He confessed why he did…all the things he did. I wasn’t expecting it, in all honesty.”

Arya’s eyes widen. She clearly was not expecting it, either. “Oh. You mean…why he bedded her?”

“What? Arya, no,” Sansa scoffs, blushing. “Why would he ever discuss _that _with me? He explained why he bent the knee and all the rest. Matters about his personal life don’t concern me.”

“Unless that includes _you_, am I right?”

Suddenly, the mouthful of blueberry tart Sansa is chewing on becomes harder to swallow. “That’s not the case, and it _never_ will be. So, I will _never _be concerned with that.”

Arya does not reply with a quick remark, and instead only raises an eyebrow. “Anyway, your name day is in a few moons. Did you think about that?”

“Oh. Actually, no, I haven’t.”

“That doesn’t surprise me at all,” Arya groans, rolling her eyes. “I think we should celebrate. With a feast, I mean.”

“Arya, no.” Sansa swallows the last drops of her tea. “We are still rebuilding the winter town, we can’t waste the little gold we have left on a feast.”

“It wouldn’t have to be anything too fancy. Just us and whatever lords and ladies want to participate. I believe it would lift everyone’s spirits…the shadow of the Great War is still too vivid.”

That is true. Even though the sun has risen many times after the Long Night, the smell of the burnt flesh of loved ones still lingers sometimes. A feast would certainly help everybody feel more relieved, but that would mean spending way more than the Crown can afford.

“I don’t know, Arya, I should probably consult Lord Royce. He’ll know what to do.”

Arya crosses her arms. “He’ll know what _not _to do. I highly doubt that he’ll endorse my idea.”

“Then, perhaps it is best _not_ to do anything. My name day will be a day like any other and nothing more.”

“Sansa,” Arya says, leaning in, “I’m worried about you, that’s all. You work a lot every day and a feast would help make _you_ feel less strained as well. When was the last time you celebrated your name day?”

Sansa swallows down some food and sighs. “Before we left Winterfell.”

“Exactly.” Arya rises and clasps her hands behind her, keeping her chin high and looking at her with solemn eyes. “Think about it, will you?”

“I will.” Sansa smiles and watches Arya make for the door, but before she can leave, “Arya, wait” she says, and her sister whips around. “If I accept…will you invite Gendry?”

For a moment, Sansa swears she catches a flinch on Arya’s inscrutable features. “_You _are the Queen. _You _should send out the invitations.”

“Would you like me to invite him?”

Arya shrugs. “He’s a friend of our family. I’m sure he would accept.”

“Yes, but would _you _want him to accept?”

Arya’s voice becomes colder. “If that means that you’ll have a feast, then go on, invite him.”

“Arya, I wouldn’t invite him for me, but for _you_.”

“Why? I didn’t ask you to do that.”

Sansa sets the food tray beside her and straightens herself up. “I think that this could be the right occasion for you two to talk.”

“Talk? Who said Gendry and I need to talk?” Arya’s grey eyes widen in disbelief. “_You_ think you can give _me_ advice on my personal life?”

“I’m your sister. Why shouldn’t I?”

“Well, why don’t you look at yourself? I think you’ve got your own issues to deal with, don’t you?”

“Arya, that’s not—”

“Don’t bother.” Arya opens the door and slides through it. “I’m going on a ride to the wolfswood. I don’t know when I’ll be back,” she concludes, and with that she shuts the door.

“Of course,” Sansa mutters to herself now that the room is empty, “so you won’t have to see me all day.”

Why is it still so hard for her and Arya to see eye to eye on things sometimes? As Sansa pushes away the covers and locks Jon’s tunic and letter inside a drawer, she cannot help but feel as if Arya and she were children again, squabbling over silly matters until their parents told them to behave.

But this was not a silly matter, was it?

Sansa sighs as she rises from her bed and calls two handmaidens to come in. One quickly carries the food tray away and then comes back to tidy her bed, the other helps her freshen herself up before getting dressed. As the handmaiden with nimble fingers tightens and laces her bodice, Sansa wonders whether Arya has already ridden out of Winterfell. If Jon had been here, she knows, her sister would have run to him immediately. He had this way of understanding her in ways that Sansa never could, even now. And she is sure that even though her sister knows how to conceal it from anyone’s view, Arya must miss her brother terribly. That must be the reason why she always asks her if he has written back. _That_, and probably the fact that she believes there is something hidden between the lines when it comes to Jon’s letters, but Sansa is not a little girl who mixes reality and fantasy anymore. Jon is just Jon, her brother, and nothing more than that could he ever be.

Once she is fully dressed and her hair is woven into a thick braid that rustles against the back of her dress, Sansa wears her crown and joins her Hand and the rest of the court in the Great Hall, where a crowd of petitioners is awaiting her. One after one they all come forward with their requests and pleas, and once again Sansa grants them what she can.

The day drags on slowly, and after the crowd disperses, Sansa invites her Hand to her solar for tea and to discuss the current matters at hand.

“The reconstruction of the winter town has suffered a setback, Your Grace, after the recent fires,” Lord Royce says as he glances at the books of account under his eyes, “and there are still many houses and inns that need assistance.”

“I see, Lord Royce,” Sansa says, leaning back in her chair. “At this rate, the reconstruction will undoubtedly take moons to finish. We can host a great number of villagers here in Winterfell, but many are starting to become…impatient, I would say. They want to go home to their former lives.”

“There’s no way to speed up the process, I fear.” Lord Royce pensively strokes his wrinkly chin. “Not with the limited resources we have. Most of our gold has been spent for those houses.”

_Exactly what I told Arya. But since we’re here, I might as well ask him anyway._ “So, I guess that a feast in occasion of my name day would be inappropriate at a time like this?”

Lord Royce’s small eyes widen. “A _feast_?”

Sansa nods. “My name day is in a few moons. I thought that it could be a good occasion to ease the tensions a little.”

“Mh, mh, mh.” Lord Royce looks about, then his gaze lands back on Sansa and a smirk appears on his face. “I believe it is not a bad idea, Your Grace.”

_What? _“What do you mean?”

“What I mean is that a feast might be just what the Crown needs, _especially _at a time like this,” Lord Royce says as a sparkle crosses his eyes. “Not only would it lift the people’s mood, but it would also come in handy in another aspect. I’m an old man, and many kings I’ve seen, and I witnessed myself that great alliances were sometimes made during feasts.”

Sansa tilts her head. “_Alliances_?”

“Indeed, Your Grace.” The old man then lowers his gaze as though he is ashamed of what he is going to say, but Sansa does not hush him, and so he continues. “When we went to King’s Landing, before we left to return to the North, I had a brief encounter with Nymor Martell, the Prince of Dorne. The lad did not speak much, but he seemed kind and polite. And from what I’ve heard, he despises hunting and prefers playing the harp and singing.”

_Have I misheard?_ “Are you—are you suggesting that I should wed him?”

“No, Your Grace, no, I would never,” Lord Royce quickly points out, shaking his head. “I’m suggesting that you should _consider_ it.”

“_Consider _it?”

Lord Royce nods.

“And what makes you think he’d be interested in me?”

“You’re a young, unmarried queen, Your Grace, heir to one of the most ancient noble houses. Why would he _not _be interested in such a union?”

_Of course_, Sansa thinks, flattening out the wrinkles of her dress. _Of course. Who wouldn’t marry me for my claim?_

She steels herself lest her voice crack, revealing the inner turmoil that is raging through her. “I can’t, Lord Royce. Not again. I hope you’ll understand.”

“Of course I do. I knew your Lord Father, and I would never suggest you wed against your will. I am only a servant, but as your Hand it is my duty to ensure you’re aware of all the viable options.”

“A marriage is not the only way to get more gold,” Sansa says, keeping her icy mask in place. “There’s still the Iron Bank. We could ask them for a loan. I don’t see why they should deny it.”

“You could, Your Grace, but if you ask the Iron Bank for a loan, you’ll be linked to them for years, decades, even. Whereas by marrying the Prince of Dorne, you’d have immediate access to Sunspear’s gold.” Lord Royce pauses, then his thin lips part again. “In addition to that, I’ve heard what the northern lords are saying…_whispering_. They’re worried about the stability of the kingdom, Your Grace. It’s been moons since the end of the war, and they wonder when you’ll produce…a heir.”

Suddenly, Sansa’s stomach tightens, making her feel sick. “I’m very well aware of my responsibilities, Lord Royce, but I’m not making any promise at the moment.” She rises from her chair and her Hand does the same. “You should know that.”

“I do,” he says, “but please, consider it. Throw a feast like you intended to and invite him. Meet him, talk to him. Get to know him, if that will help you feel more secure, and then make whatever decision you feel is right for yourself and for the kingdom.”

“Thank you, Lord Royce.”

The man bows his head dutifully and takes his leave, and once she is alone in her solar, Sansa sinks down in her chair and lets out a shuddering sigh that traverses her stiff body in its entirety.

_I should get married and produce a heir_. All at once, she feels little and afraid again, kneeling on the cold marble of the Great Sept of Baelor as two unfamiliar hands drape a cloak over her shoulders and she is not Sansa Stark anymore, but a pawn in the hand of whoever wants to play her. No, she could never do that. Not again. Not after all that happened to her, all that was done to her. She would never wed against her will again. She would rather lock her heart in a cage and throw away the key than allow another man to claim her as his. She understands the northern lords’ worries and Lord Royce’s as well, but she would rather pay a thousand loans than go through all of that again.

To calm herself down, Sansa rises from her chair and paces around her solar. Her boots click against the ancient stones of the floor, and as she gazes at a tapestry portraying the whole continent of Westeros, her mind takes her back to the last time she was in King’s Landing, years after swearing she would never set foot in that city again.

Her eyes trail over the distance between Winterfell and Dorne. They really are worlds away. The North is large and white, and Winterfell lies at its heart, its towers reduced to small dark grey threads. On the very opposite of the map, Dorne stretches from side to side, narrow and long. Overlooking the narrow sea, Sunspear is a little dot the shape of a small orange sun. Sansa’s eyes travel all the way to Winterfell, then down to Sunspear, then up again. How could she ever marry a Dornish Prince?

She saw Prince Nymor herself in King’s Landing. They did not exchange a single word apart from a formal greeting, yet she had the chance to observe him briefly out of the corner of her eye. He looked clean and neat, and certainly easy on the eye. He sat elegantly till the end of the trial, with his hands entwined on his lap and his shoulders relaxed. His curls had been meticulously combed, Sansa could tell, after years spent in King’s Landing surrounded by knights who would not even bother to wash themselves. His hands might even be soft and gentle, but whose curls would she want to caress whenever she would be close to him? Whose dark, tormented eyes would she want to drown into whenever his gaze would meet hers?

There is already a dark, curly-haired man in her heart, and even though he does not love her, Sansa cannot even fathom the idea of replacing him with someone who looks like him but really does not look like him at all.

Before her mind can take any darker turns, she walks away from the colourful tapestry and sits at her desk. She flicks through the books of account spread open over the table and sighs. She rubs her forehead, but no matter how hard she presses into her skull through her skin, no solution arises. What should she do? She could at least meet him, yes, and it would not have to mean anything for either of them.

“Gods,” Sansa groans. “Damn Arya and her stupid idea. Damn _me _and my name day.”

She rubs her eyes and gazes out of the window. A soft snow starts falling, slowly drifting from the sky and towards the ground. Is this a sign? Is this a cue sent just for her? Jon’s latest letter is lying at the end of a drawer in her bedchambers, but that does not mean that she has locked him out of her mind all day.

With a swift flick of her wrist, she picks some new parchment and reaches for her quill. After dipping it in a black sea of ink, she writes his name and then, word after word, fills out the rest.

It hurts this time, too, but it is a different kind of pain. When she wrote her first letter to him, she was frightened and hesitant, and his absence stifled her and numbed her fingers. Now, she misses him as well, but most of all it pains her to know that she cannot be honest with him. It pains her that she cannot tell him that had he really perished to save her, she would not have had much else to live for. Sansa fought for her home, for her family, she fought to reunite it, and had Jon died, she…she…

She drops the quill and a pitch-black splotch spreads on the parchment as the latter quickly drinks it like the dry earth during a sudden summer shower. She groans, but she has already written half a page, and she does not feel ready to begin all over again.

She hates what she is feeling. She _loathes _it. Why does she always have to lie? In King’s Landing she had to lie to protect herself from lions, in the Vale she had to lie to escape from vultures, in Winterfell she had to lie to save herself from dragonfire. Now, she has to lie because if she told Jon the truth, he would hide under the snow forever rather than speak to her again.

From where would she even begin, anyway? By telling him that it is _his_ eyes she sees at night when she closes hers as she waits for sleep to rescue her? That it is the sound of _his_ voice she struggles to play in her head and hopes she never forgets? That it is _him_ that she would rather marry, rich or penniless, honourable or turncloak, because it is _him_ she loves, not a foreign prince or a lord she has not met yet.

How could she ever love someone who smells like saffron and lemons when all she craves is dark ale, leather and pine?

For a moment madness takes over her. For a moment her heart flutters and her hand quivers and she almost writes all of her truth, ink on parchment, once and for all, finally putting an end to her endless torments that haunt her days and nights.

But then it fades, and reality kicks in, and all she can write is how sorry she is for all that happened and how she wishes it had not come to that.

Nothing new, then. The truth is a luxury she cannot afford. Not now, not _ever_.

She grits her teeth and pushes herself to finish the letter. Her head hurts and her hand feels tired and numb, and once she is done she does not even reread it to check and fix any errors like she did the first time she wrote him. She does not need to do so. He wrote again, yes, but nothing has changed, nothing will ever change. Jon is always going to stay at the Wall, and she is always going to stay in Winterfell. He might even write back again, or decide that what they have already said is enough, but nothing would change anyway. The past is set in stone, unmistakable and unchangeable, and the ink of their future is already dry, just as much as that of their letters.

She drags herself through the corridors of Winterfell, as empty as her heart, and steps into the rookery, the cold winds nipping at her skin like a thousand knives. Her hands move mechanically, binding the letter to a raven’s leg, and as she watches the bird’s black wings flap away through the fog, she cannot help but think that perhaps this is the last time she sends a raven north.

**Jon**

A wall of thick clouds hastily gathers before his very eyes. Jon squints at the sky, trying to catch a glimpse of the morning sun, but no rays shine upon him. It is only grey he sees. Grey and black and red and _silver_.

Daenerys Targaryen stands at an arm’s length from him. At her feet, blackened by the dragonfire, lie the ruins of the city of King’s Landing. Had he not been there when they all crumbled down, Jon would have never guessed that this burnt pile of rubble was once a city made of houses, towers, taverns and markets. Nothing remains of the life that once had inhabited those buildings and squares; only an undistinguishable heap of burnt bodies reduced to nothing but dust and ash and broken promises.

The salt of his tears burns on his parched lips. “Why?” he asks, yet she does not deign to answer. “Why? Why, why, WHY?” He tries to grab her arm but she is too far to be caught. He screams and yells and roars, grits his teeth, curses and spits poison and blood alike yet she does not see him—or anyone, really. But then he sees _her_, with her red hair and chains at her wrists, and his heart sinks to his stomach and breaks, breaks, breaks.

He failed her. And now she dies.

“Bring the traitor forward,” the Queen commands, her voice like a knife through Jon’s heart. Sansa is pushed forward, the tinkle of her chains thundering inside Jon’s head. She wears a simple robe, a battered white dress that reveals her bare feet.

“You don’t have to do this!” Jon yells, Sansa’s pale eyes staring into his. She already looks dead. “You don’t have do this! It’s over! The war is over, you won! Please!”

Daenerys still does not look at him. Sansa opens her mouth to yell, but her voice is gone, stolen, lost, and only the shriek of a dragon fills the air.

A gust of wind as hot as fire pushes him to his knees. Finally, he is close to the Queen, close enough to touch her. He tugs at her black skirts with all the strength he has inside and howls desperately. “Daenerys! Please!” Bile gathers in his throat and rage mounts within and almost blinds him. “_You can’t!_” he snarls, baring his teeth, “_you can’t!_”

She looks down at him, her eyes as cold as ice. “_I can’t_?” She smirks, her smile twisted and cruel. “You, stupid fool.”

Jon’s eyes flash to Sansa. She cries, struggling and trying to rid herself of the chains, but they won’t come off. They grow as vicious vines, twisting and twining around her body, paralysing her limbs and suffocating her until she breathes no more.

Jon jumps to his feet and sprints towards her, his heart as loud as a war drum, but she is too far, too far away, and the more he gets closer, the more she slips away. Above him, the sky cracks with thunder, and a rain of fire pours upon her, becoming one with the red in her hair. He runs and runs, faster and faster, but the flames engulf all of her until nothing is left before him but a pile of ash that seeps through his fingers like sand.

Jon jerks upright. He is shuddering, cold sweat dripping from his forehead and into his eyes. He rubs the stinging sweat away and looks around him. The cell is dark, save for the faint light of a candle in one corner. His chest heaves with terror, and it takes him a moment to remember where he is, and that it was just a nightmare.

Just a nightmare. Just a nightmare.

In the dark, he feels the bedsheets. They are drenched with sweat, _his _sweat. He cannot sleep like this. He gets out of bed, gathers the sheets and balls them up to put them aside. He considers lying down again, but then the grey light of morning peeks through the window and announces that a new day has come. He rubs his eyes and glances at the spot by his bed where Ghost usually sleeps, but when he finds it empty and remembers that he will not be back for a while, sadness creeps in. He then gets dressed and runs upstairs, into the morning hall.

As he breaks his fast with eggs and bread, Jon cannot prevent himself from thinking about his dream. He pushes down a mouthful of bread through the lump in his throat, yet the food does not sit right in his stomach. There was a time when the execution of Sansa for treason was not a remote possibility. There was a time when the woman able to let Sansa be eaten by the flames of her wrath waltzed through the halls of Winterfell, ready to burn it all. There was a time when he could not have saved the woman he loved, and even though countless moons have passed, sometimes it feels like Jon’s worst dream could still come true.

Did Daenerys sense any of that? Was there a corner of her mind where she knew that Jon’s kisses did not taste like hopeful promises but broken oaths because there was another woman that he would have rather kissed?

“‘Morning. Is this seat taken?”

Pulled out of his haunting thoughts, Jon follows the sudden voice and lifts his eyes. Brynden stares down at him with a friendly grin plastered across his freckled face. “Uh, no. It’s not.”

Brynden drags the chair and sits himself next to Jon. He points at his bowl of blueberries and asks, “Want some?”

“No, thanks, Brynden,” Jon sighs with a sad smile, pushing his scrambled eggs around his plate with his fork. “I’m not very hungry today.”

“Slept bad?”

“Aye.” His mind briefly takes him back to his dream. Had it been any other day, Jon would have rather sat apart from the others for a while, but on a morning like this, he is glad that he is not left alone with his thoughts.

“Back home, when I couldn’t sleep, my mum would make me valerian tea. It made me fall asleep like a babe.”

“I fear we don’t have any of that here.” Jon pushes away his plate of eggs and sips on some ale. “Sleep is not my problem, though. It’s…what happens next. What I dream of.”

“Nightmares? You had one?”

Jon nods. “It felt quite…real.” _It could have been._

“Mh, I don’t know what to do against nightmares,” Brynden says, his mouth full of food.

“I can only hope it doesn’t happen again,” Jon says with a shrug. “It was only a dream, after all. Nothing important.”

Brynden smiles and drinks some of his ale. “Do we train today, Lord Snow?”

“I don’t think we’ll have the time,” Jon says, looking around him. The morning hall is becoming more crowded by the minute, and a symphony of cutlery and wood and chatter rises and fills the air just as quickly as the smell of bacon leaves the kitchens. “The First Builder asked all of the older brothers to help carry the ice blocks on top of the Wall, and that includes me.”

Brynden’s lips curve downwards. “So…will we train tomorrow?”

“I hope so,” Jon says, rising from his seat. “But don’t worry about that.” He picks up his dirty plate and cup and pats Brynden’s shoulder with his free hand. “Enjoy your meal now. The Lord Commander will find you something to do while I’m busy.”

—

The cage takes off and Jon watches the snowy ground below his boots become smaller and smaller. The sun is high yet pale, and only scarcely warms Jon’s face through the bars of the cage that lifts him. The skin of his cheeks is so cold that it feels as taut as a rope on the verge of breaking. As he looks through the iron bars down at Castle Black, now reduced to a small, insignificant figurine, he wonders whether Brynden is being trained by someone else and if he would enjoy it more than being trained by him.

The cage swings a little, but Jon has taken it enough times not to be worried by it anymore. It creaks and groans until it stops and Jon can finally step out of it. The top of the Wall glistens as though a cascade of precious gems have been heaped over it. The ice is only slightly slippery, and before Jon takes any further step, he dusts it with dirt enough for his feet not to betray him. After him, other brothers get to the top carrying heavy ice blocks with them. After getting to their posts, they break down the ice and mix it with crushed stones and soil in order to fill what remains of the breach that the Night King flying on top of Viserion caused.

“Help me out with that, Snow?” Derrick, a sworn brother with pitch black eyes and fair hair asks, pointing at a huge ice block. Jon nods and bends his knees to lift the heavy block by grasping the thick ropes entwined around it. As he carries it, he can see the ice melting in little rivulets that flow like glistening tears. Once the block is on the right spot, Derrick starts striking it with a pick to give it the shape needed to add it to the rest of the ice.

Jon’s morning goes on like this for a while. More ice blocks are carried atop the Wall, and many brothers come and go, taking turns when their legs give in and their arms stop working from the fatigue. As the horizon lies before his eyes, light blue and golden, Jon gazes at the white, infinite expanse of the haunted forest. He observes all the pines and chestnuts with their snowy plumes and wonders where Ghost might be. He squints and strains his eyes to catch any sudden movement in the snow but sighs when minutes pass and everything lies still and eternal as a dream.

Jon misses Ghost dearly. He does not regret sending him with Tormund to help him — he actually feels more secure knowing that his friend has a protector by his side — but he wishes he were here with him. His crimson eyes, while they usually never fail to infuse anyone else with terror, are one of the few things that seem to soothe the turmoil in his heart.

Them, and another _red _thing. Someone’s hair. _Sansa’s_.

It is as soon as the sun starts to set that the cage reaches the ground and Jon steps out of it. Brynden crosses the courtyard and runs to him while agitating something in his hand, and it does not take long for Jon to understand what it is.

“Lord Snow, a letter from Winterhell!”

Jon chuckles and wipes his gloves on his cloak before taking the letter from Brynden’s hand. “It’s Winter_f_ell.”

“Oh, right.” Brynden chuckles nervously. “I get confused sometimes.”

“Don’t worry, Brynden, it’s all right,” Jon says, patting the lad’s shoulder. “What did you do today, anyway? Did you train?”

While the two walk towards the main hall, Jon feels the ice melt from his face. After sitting by the fire to warm themselves, Brynden tells him about his day. While Jon was on top of the Wall, from where the men that crowded the courtyard looked like ants, Brynden trained with the master-at-arms, who found he has improved. After weeks of hitting his brothers with a wooden stick, he is now ready to swing a real sword, one that glistens when the sun catches its blade.

“Will we train tomorrow, Lord Snow? Or will you go on top o’ the Wall again?”

“I fear I will. The breach is still wide up there, and there’s not enough of us.”

“Can I come with you?”

Jon frowns. “Absolutely not. It’s too dangerous.”

“Oh, please. I’ve never been up there!”

“And that’s how it’ll be for a while.” To avoid further pleading, Jon averts his eyes from the sad-looking boy in front of him and breaks the direwolf seal on Sansa’s letter. The first thing that catches his eye when he opens it is a large splotch of ink that almost covers the words under it. _How strange_, Jon thinks. _It is not like Sansa to spill ink on a letter and not write a new one._

> _Jon,_
> 
> _it is not easy to read your words. It is not easy to know that you felt like you had to fight every battle at once. It is not easy to remember how it all crumbled down on us. On you._
> 
> _Yet the past is gone, isn’t it? Gone, dead, buried, like so many people. Like so many people we loved and who loved us. Father, Mother, Robb, Rickon…they are all dead. Gone. Erased. But we survived. We survived the Lannisters, the Mad King’s daughter…but we almost killed each other, didn’t we?_
> 
> _What have we become, Jon? Sometimes I wonder what kind of person I would have been if I had never gone to King’s Landing. Do you ever wonder who you would have been if you had never left the North? It is pointless now, though, to think about it. To wonder. It is pointless to wonder what might have happened, just as it is futile and fruitless to ponder about a past that is long gone and that will never change. Life is what we do when things happen to us. Now, the present is what requires our attention, and we cannot afford to look behind us, to dwell in the past. We cannot keep ourselves stuck there, for nothing will ever change. We made our choices, either good or bad, but we made them. And now we must reap the fruits of what we have sowed._
> 
> _Keep care of yourself._
> 
> _Sansa Stark, Queen in the North_

Once Jon has read the letter in its entirety, he gapes at it with his mouth open like a fish. “What have I just read?”

He looks up and sees Brynden frowning. “What do you mean, Lord Snow?”

_She was pretty clear, wasn’t she?_ “I think…I think this is her last letter.” _I might not hear from her again. Ever again._

“Why? What did she say?”

Jon’s hand flinches, and had he been in his senses, he never would have done something like this, but now…now, he does not even know how to distinguish good from bad anymore. “Here,” he says, handing the letter to a startled Brynden who looks at him with round eyes. “You’ve been taking Sam’s reading lessons, haven’t you? Read this. You don’t need to know the rest to understand.”

Brynden blinks repeatedly, his eyes flitting between Jon and the letter. “Are you…are you sure? I don’t know if I’m good. And you told me off for sticking my nose in it last time.”

Jon sighs. “You’re right, but this time it’s different.” _What am I doing? Asking a green boy for advice?_ “Take it before I change my bloody mind!”

Still hesitant, Brynden takes the letter with careful fingers and begins to read it. Jon studies his face and the way he squints as he reads, silently mouthing the words to himself, and then his mind takes off. Sansa has grown bored of writing him. She was the one to reach out, sure, but did that mean they would have kept writing forever? No. He knows, he knows he is right. No _Dear _this time, only _Jon_. And her words seemed dull. Grey. _Empty_. She must be bored, or perhaps sad, Jon cannot know for sure, but it is clear that the timid enthusiasm of her first letter or the genuine interest she showed in him later are gone. Now she was just courteous, because that is who she is…but if she does not care about a splotch of ink ruining her letter, what faint interest she ever showed in him must be gone, too. He is no bloody poet, but he knows how to read between the lines.

“Why does she write o’ fruits?” Brynden asks.

Confused, Jon takes the letter and reads it again. “Oh, Brynden. She’s not talking of fruits,” he says, chuckling weakly. “This sentence right here means that your actions determine what happens in the future. If you make mistakes today, you’re going to pay the price of them tomorrow.”

The crease of bewilderedness fades from Brynden’s freckled forehead. “Is this what you did? Did you make mistakes, Lord Snow?”

Suddenly, Jon feels violated, as though the lad sitting across from him were reading right through him, reaching parts of his soul he would rather bury forever. “Aye, I did.” _I made too many of them. Too many._

“Do you really think she doesn’t wanna write you no more?”

“I wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t want to.” _Not after everything she went through._

“What are you gonna do? Are you gonna write her again?”

Jon heaves a deep sigh. “I could…perhaps I have to, but I told you. I feel that if I do, she won’t want to hear from me again.”

“Aye, but what do _you _want?” For a moment, Jon’s memories all come flooding back from the forgotten corners of his mind; there is something in the way Brynden looks at him that reminds him so much of his Lord Father, the only one he has ever known.

“What do _I _want?” Jon shuts his eyes and the world stops, and only the sound of his heartbeat accompanies him. He has compromised himself enough already. There is nothing left to hide anymore. _I want her. _“If I could, I would ride to her right now.”

Brynden’s brows knit together and his mouth forms a thin, firm line. “Then, write her. Do it again.” He pushes the letter against Jon’s chest until he takes it. “When I met you, I was angry. Hit you in the face and gave you a black eye. And now you’re training me. You’ve been patient with me, Lord Snow. Since I arrived here, I’ve learned to fight, to read, and all my rage is gone. Write her, til’ you can. I left my darling girl behind, I did, and I’d die to hear from her again. You can do what I can’t. Don’t waste your time.”

Jon is at a loss for words. “Tell me again, Brynden, how old are you?”

Brynden rises from his chair. “Old and tall enough to kick your arse.”

“Are you threatening me again?”

Brynden grins. “Only if it works. Does it?”

Jon sighs, glances at Sansa’s letter and all doubts leave him. “Aye, it does. Thank you, really.”

“No problem.”

Before he takes his leave, Jon grabs Brynden’s arm. “Just…don’t tell anyone. If word gets out and reaches her—”

“Don’t worry, Lord Snow. I won’t tell a soul.”

“Thank you.”

Jon glances down at the letter in his hand. He will write her again. He could start by talking about his daily life, about what he’s been doing lately, with the reconstruction of the Wall and all the rest. He could tell her that Ghost has left his side for a while because Tormund needed his help, and that he has met a young, quick-witted boy who has helped him overcome his fears like a true friend would. Yes, he could tell her all of that in detail, as though they were speaking face to face by a burning hearth in Winterfell. He will write her again, and if he is lucky enough, she will understand how much he cares about her. Should she never write again, however, he will respect her decision. But until that moment, Jon cannot ignore how fast and loud his heart beats whenever he holds her words in his hands. Until that moment, he must try.

“I need to go. It’s my turn in the kitchens tonight.”

“Of course, Brynden, go. I won’t detain you any longer.” Before Brynden turns on his heel, though, Jon calls his name and he turns around. “What is the name of your girl, anyway?”

Brynden smiles. “Roselyn.” Then he turns and leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked this, please don't forget to leave kudos and/or a comment. Not only does it boost my spirit and inspiration, but it also allows me to interact with you guys, which is something that I love doing!
> 
> Also, if you're in the mood, feel free to check my Dark!Jon x Alayne fic **[Stray Wolves](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20909759/chapters/49707077)** out!

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on **[ Tumblr](https://sansa-in-the-north.tumblr.com)** and reblog **[ this post](https://sansa-in-the-north.tumblr.com/post/187425710553/dear-jon-post-season-8-letter-fic-sansa-drops)** to support this story!


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